


Fathers and Mothers

by Umeko



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Gen, Not Incest, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 27,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1715108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umeko/pseuds/Umeko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tapestry of family, about the bond between parent and child, and not necessarily by blood. May not be in chronological order.  Multiple characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Father to Seven

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer- The canonic characters are the creation of Tolkien. I just borrow them.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feanor fears that one day he would share his father's fate.

It was no secret how the High King Finwe felt about his eldest. Feanaro Curufinwe was his favourite. Perhaps in him he saw his departed Miriel. The prince was his father’s pride and joy and he knew it. Even as an elfling he was of quick wit and took readily to his lessons. By the time he was a youth, he had bettered many of his masters. However, some would later claim that they had foreseen a touch of darkness in their prince’s brilliance. _Hadn’t his amil chosen to die, worn out after the birth of the son she had named Spirit of Fire?_ It was unthinkable and unheard of, the choice Miriel made. Finwe waited but she never returned from the Halls of Waiting. They say that was her choice too although the Valar would have long freed her onto her family.

The High King took a second wife, Indis of the Vanyar, who filled with love the emptiness in his fea Miriel left behind. The young prince did not take so kindly to the new queen. Perhaps he resented her taking the position he felt was rightfully his mother’s. Perhaps he feared the children that would soon follow would grow to take his place in Finwe’s affection. Indis soon started to swell with new life and Feanaro’s moods darkened with each birth. Feanaro took little interest in the care of his half-siblings. The High King loved his brood by Indis but he still favoured his eldest.

It was unheard of for a son to leave his father’s house and set up his own, at least not until he had children and grandchildren and simple overcrowding in the abode demanded it. Feanaro was of great pride and a fiery temper. After one argument with his father, he moved out, dragging with him his new wife, even though she was near childbed then.  Long-suffering Nerdanel.

They sought shelter at his law-father’s house when the pains become so intense his wife could not continue. The midwife was sent for. That was the start of one of the worst nights of his young life. He spent the much of the following day pacing, listening to Nerdanel’s cries within the birthing chamber and trying to ignore the dark looks Mahtan shot his way. _What if something went wrong with mother or child? What had he been thinking leaving his father’s home in such a manner?_

He had feared he would lose her and the baby both. The Valar took pity on him and heeded his prayers. Nerdanel was delivered of a son – Maitimo. It was a much chastised new father who returned to Finwe’s hall once Nerdanel had recovered from the birth.

Kano soon followed so that Maitimo would have a playmate. This time the birth happened under Finwe’s roof although it was feared there might be no roof left after a row broke out between Feanaro and his stepmother over which midwife should attend Nerdanel. It was as a difficult birth as was the first and it was thought for a while that little Kano would perish ere he took breath. Defying expectations, both mother and child survived and thrived.

It was soon after that Finwe reluctantly deemed it best that his eldest set up house nearby. Feanaro chose a simple house near the smithies outside the city, claiming he wanted peace from his half-siblings and be free of his stepmother’s meddling.

Most elves would have the sense to finish raising one or two elflings to maturity before starting on another. It was not uncommon for siblings to be born centuries apart.  But not Feanaro or Nerdanel.

In the relative peace of their humble abode, three more sons were added to the household. It was about this time that Feanaro took to wandering the wilds with his growing sons and dedicating himself more fervently to his craft. Tyelkormo came while he was away with his sons in the wilds. The elfling was not expected for another month. How surprised the boys were when they returned to find a wailing baby brother in the cradle by their amil’s side.

Carnistir soon followed, then Curufinwe. Both births were no less a trial but somehow Nerdanel always defied the odds. When Carnistir came, his father was busy at the forge and it was Maitimo who ran for the midwife. Feanaro came home just in time to greet his new son and an exhausted wife. Curufinwe came on a rare stormy night in Aman where the midwife could not get there in time. The tiny elfling popped right into the hands of his atar while Kano and Maitimo soothed the other boys. Thank Eru all went well that night. It was an experience he prayed never to have again ever.

Their tiny cottage was starting to feel a bit cramped. _Every elfling’s a gift from the Valar…_ Sometimes, Feanaro wished they had been less generous to him. Like when Tyelkormo took off running into the woods in his tenth year and did not return for two days. Nerdanel almost had a fit.  Tyelkormo returned with a large puppy and asked his naneth if he could keep him. He would have taken his belt to his son then if Nerdanel had not been crying tears of joy and hugging the elfling. There was the time Kano almost burned the house down in a well-intended attempt at helping his amil cook supper, and the time Maitimo lost Carnistir in the marketplace.

Feanaro tried to be the best father and best husband he could to his family. Somehow he felt he always fell short. He got the best tutors for his older offspring but the boys were not keen on their studies. They were always taking their toy swords and bows and venturing off into the woods behind their home. Tyelkormo in particular was prone to taking off with his hound for days on end. At least Orome the Hunter took him under his wing and reassured his parents no harm would befall the elfling in his woodland realm. As he grew, Kano was more likely to stay home and see to his letters and help his amil, shunning the training fields and the forge, which was disappointing in another way.

Now he was back in that nerve-wracking situation of being barred from his wife’s side as she fought to bring another elfling into the world. _A sixth child. Perhaps another son, or better yet, a daughter to keep Nerdanel company at home whilst he and the boys were away._

He looked over their children. Maitimo and Kano were almost of age now. They understood what was happening, unlike their younger siblings. Maitimo busied himself by the fire preparing a poultice for one of their hounds, injured by a stag. Kano sang a lullaby and strummed his harp to soothe a restless Carnistir and Curufinwe. It was a melodious tune, even if a tad melancholy. Young Tyelokormo sought his own comfort whimpering against the fur of that elf-hound he had been given by Orome. Huan responded with generous licks to his tear-streaked face.

None dared voice the unspoken fear. Their amil might die. To voice the thought in words was to give it life, fangs with which to threaten the elf-woman within. Kano’s voice grew hoarse as the hours passed. Finally his wavering voice ceased. It was then that Curufinwe crawled over to where his father sat, tired of his pacing.

“Ata, Is Amil… is Amil dying?” he hiccupped.

“Oh, shush, Curufinwe!” Maitimo admonished. He dropped the bow he had been stringing. Kano gasped and spilled the milk he had been heating for the youngest two.

“No, your amil is going to live…” Feanaro whispered. Little Curufunwe was right. It was taking far too long.

 _An elfling barely old enough to walk. A father bowed by grief. A tomb. His amil’s._ Finwe had loved Miriel no less than he did Nerdanel. Miriel who had all her strength and will to live drained out of her by his very birth. _Never doubt, Curufinwe,_ Finwe had said. _Your Amil loved you so much she put all of her life into you. Perhaps Finwe saw him only as the extension of Miriel’s life outside the Halls. He never had a chance to know his mother._

At the birth of each child he had to face the doubt. There was also the fear that one day he would be the one standing over a beloved wife’s grave with an elfling at his side.  If the babe lived, and his wife did not- could he bear to look upon the infant and love it? Or would he hate the babe?

A baby’s lusty wail broke the silence. The boys were up and eagerly waiting for the midwife’s exit. Wait, something was wrong. The nis who assisted the midwife emerged with a swaddled baby, an ion, she informed the father. Yet she barred his way when he tried to go to Nerdanel. He took the baby from her before shouldering her aside.

His wife was still struggling in the childbed. “Another one,” the midwife explained. His heart clenched. _Sweet Eru, how much more can his Nerdanel endure?_ Still cradling his little ion, he fell to his knees. Thankfully, another baby’s wails punctuated the air. He was a perfect copy of his elder brother. _Twins sporting the russet hair of their amil._

With trembling hands he handed the elfling in his arms to one of his sons, Kano perhaps. Nerdanel was so wan where she lay against the sweat-soaked pillows. She looked so tired, far more spent than she had been after the birth of her other children. Fear clutched at his heart.

“Beloved…” he bent over to kiss her lightly on the brow. “Don’t ever leave me.” _Like my amil did._

“Feanaro…” she gasped and smiled weakly. “I won’t, my love… Never, even if Arda is undone.”

_Little did he foresee that it would be he and their sons who would leave her behind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya names updated.  
> Amil- mother  
> Atar, ata - father


	2. Why Son?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finwe wants to know where he went wrong bringing up his son.

“Atar! Make him stop!” 

“Feanaro! Stop making fun of your sister!” the High King of the Noldor felt the start of a headache coming as he strode in the direction of the latest commotion- Feanaro’s rooms. 

His eldest was almost grown now, just shy of fifty. He was too old to be acting up. He had always been a good boy, until Nolofinwe came along. True, he was always distant from Indis… Feanaro would avoid her whenever possible. He would ignore her at meals and often chose to take his meals in his rooms. Perhaps he was just shy. They said brilliant minds were prone to be misunderstood and his eldest was the most brilliant elfling in all Tirion.

“How’s this for a new word for plain ugly and downright annoying – Findis. This is going into the new vocabulary list for all Tirion’s scribes…”

“ATAR!” Findis shrilled. Young Nolo was cowering under the table. The entire room was in shambles with torn manuscripts and spilled ink everywhere.

“As for Nolofinwe, it is a new word for a craven coward who hides behind a nis’ skirts and…” his livid eldest son said something horribly rude. Thankfully, his youngest children were with their amil.

“Feanaro! My study, now!” 

The servants barely glanced up from their work at the bellowing voice. It was regular day in the royal palace of the Noldor.

* * *

 

Finwe could not understand it. He always wanted a large family, many elflings at his knee. For many years his union with Miriel had been childless, although their love for each other was great. He knew her before he became High King of the Noldor and came to Aman. She was perfection personified to him. He believed that when they choose to have children, their offspring would be as perfect as the Miriel’s works.

Yet at the birth of their only son, something went wrong. She wished to die. He tried to coax her to live, asking her to look upon the perfect little elfling she had just delivered, but she only turned away. _Our son is my everything, I have nothing more left for other elflings…_ With those words, she slipped away into the Halls where she had remained evermore.

He tried to continue as High King, remain true to his absent wife. It was so lonely and hollow, the fine palace they dwelled in. Feanaro was a quiet and studious child, much like his nana. He reminded Finwe so much of Miriel that it hurt. He loved his son and was proud of him but he felt their family was too small and Feanaro bereft of the joy of having brothers or sisters to play with.

He chose Indis for her kindness and gentle ways. It was also an alliance with the Vanyar. He believed she would be a good mother. He was right. Indis soon presented him with two fine sons and two beautiful daughters. She tried to mother Feanaro but his eldest was having none of that. He loved all his children. Indis’ brood thrived in the warmth and security of their parents’ love. 

Feanaro was outside that circle of warmth. He wanted it that way. Quarrels with Indis and spats with his half-siblings were common. Oh no, Indis did not mistreat her stepson. On the contrary, it was Indis who would come out of their encounters in tears. Finally she decided that for the peace of the household, she would keep to her personal rooms and not ask Feanaro to join them for meals if he did not desire to do so.

Finwe had tried talking to his proud and stubborn son but Feanaro would not listen. He tried punishment with the belt or confinement to his room but they only made him more hostile towards his stepmother and half-siblings. Finally he sent his son to Aule as an apprentice, knowing Feanaro would spend most of his waking hours in the forge as he has done so in the Great Library when he was creating a new writing system.

The High King was proud of his eldest above all. Feanaro had inherited Miriel’s skill and dedication to his craft. Nolofinwe, Arafinwe and their sisters paled in the light of his brilliance. Finwe considered his brood by Indis. Findis chose to dedicate her immortal life to the service of Este, becoming a healer. She felt herself plain and insignificant. Perhaps she had been so cowed by Feanor’s bullying she did not wish to continue being a member of their court. Her sister Irime and brothers Nolofinwe and Arafinwe adored their older brother. They were always ready to forgive Feanaro’s temper, even that day when Feanaro forged the first sword and promptly drew it on Nolofinwe.

He allowed Feanaro’s union with Nerdanel, the daughter of an elf-smith. As Crown Prince, Feanaro Curufinwe should have wedded a noble lady of the Noldor, or the Vanyar or Teleri to bind their peoples. He had hoped his law-daughter’s patience would bank his son’s fire. For a while it worked. Children soon followed and Feanaro took on the responsibilities of a father. Indis’ children wedded as well, save Findis who took a vow of celibacy to better dedicate her life to the Valar. Feanaro produced seven sons with his wife. Nolofinwe and Arafinwe each had three sons and a daughter by their noble wives. The grandchildren soon grew into adulthood. 

The proud grandfather watched as the children of his sons formed lifelong bonds of friendship between them. Feanaro’s eldest son was always in the company of Nolo’s eldest boy. Feanaro’s Tyelkormo and Curufinwe rode and hunted in the woods outside Tirion with Arafinwe’s Ingoldo. He had hoped the friendships of the children would heal the rift between his sons. He never dreamed those bonds would almost lead to the ruin of his house.

* * *

In the Halls he had awaited news of his family and it came with the Elven fear which poured in with the First Kinslaying. More news came with the Elves lost on the Grinding Ice. He was horrified to see among them Nolo’s law-daughter Elenwe. Fired by Feanaro’s words, his children, grandchildren and their children had defied the Valar and left Aman for the lands beyond and were henceforth forbidden to return to the Undying Lands. Only two of his bloodline remained in Aman- Findis who never heeded Feanaro’s words, and his youngest son, Arafinwe, who had turned back to seek the forgiveness of the Vala. Finwe could not understand why his heir had acted as he did.  _Feanaro, why this madness?_

Finwe had Miriel’s constant companionship as their fea haunted the cold halls. She was as bewildered as he was. Finwe felt he had failed her and their son both somehow. Feanaro’s son Telvo sometimes joined them in their wanderings, another victim of Feanaro’s madness. Finwe had no idea how many centuries lapsed before Lord Namo came with news of Feanaro. 

Feanaro’s fea had passed into the Halls of Mandos. The guilt of the Oath and Kinslaying lay heavy upon his fea. His time in the Halls would be long indeed. Manwe has granted Finwe a chance to meet with his son before Finwe was to be reembodied. His son looked so browbeaten as he sat on his haunches against the wall of his bare cell, clad only in a coarse homespun tunic. He reminded Finwe of the scared little elfling he once was.

“Why, my son?” Finwe asked. Feanaro only stared back in stony silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am updating the names to their Quenya ones where appropriate.


	3. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ararfinwe turned back at the pronouncement of the Doom but not his children.

“You let them go to their Doom! You’ve killed our elflings!” his wife shrieked as she rained blow after blow upon him. He did not feel them. He was numbly aware of his sister and law-sister Anaire restraining his gentle Earwen when she reached for that ceremonial dagger his brother had forged so long ago and presented to his father as a gift, his _dead, murdered_ father. His gentle, demure wife, already distraught by the loss of her brothers at Alqualonde… The sight of his return sans her children snapped whatever restraint she had left.

He is the last son of Finwe’s line in Valinor, his mother explained gently. _Who else can lead the Noldor?_ He has to take upon his untested shoulders the kingship, so that his people may find the strength to rally and rebuild their lives. He could not abandon them to their dark despair. His brothers’ warriors were under the Doom, likewise the warriors who had chosen to follow his children over the ice. Earwen went to live with her father, so to better succour her people in the aftermath of the Kinslaying, and stayed there for many centuries.

Under his mother’s tutelage and the Valar’s, he learned the ropes of kingship and governance. He had to be strong for his subjects, who looked up to him as symbol of hope and stability. The city slowly recovered. Two lamps were crafted by the Valar and sent aloft. The sun and the moon, day and night were thus created. He made peace with the Teleri who had suffered his brother’s wrath. Ties between Alqualonde and Tirion soon flourished.

Yes, he has proved himself a worthy successor to his father’s throne. He carried out his duties to the best of his abilities, be it receiving the Vanyarin and Telerin delegations, mediating in quarrels which could cause unrest in the city or overseeing the ceremonies honouring the Valar.  Gradually the memory of that dreadful day was tempered in the minds of the people by the passing cycles of the sun. _King Finarfin the Fair, the Just,_ they hailed him, the same citizens he once feared would revile him for his brother’s deeds.

Earwen chose to remain with her kin. Their palace in Tirion was not a home to her without her children.  Many times through the years, he petitioned the Valar to lift the Doom to no avail. His mother Indis has long returned to her people. City walls never sat well with a Vanya, who desired the trees and forest glades. His eldest sister, Findis has all but forsaken her noble birth, dedicating her life as a disciple of Este. She is a respected wisewoman and oversees the Great House of Healing in the city. His brothers’ wives kept to themselves. Anaire still keeps Nolofinwe’s house near the palace, although she was more often at her parents’. Nerdanel still keeps her lonely vigil by her husband’s forge.

The burdens of kingship are great.  He learnt how to walk and speak as a king. How to school his face, hide his emotions behind a regal mask. Still, when the last petition has been read and the last document stamped, he would return to his memory-filled halls. He often wonders if it is the same for his law-sisters. Here he sees in his mind’s eye, his little Nerwen perched on the window seat, gazing out the window lost in reverie. There a toy horse reminds him of his Naro at play in his babyhood. There a small harp upon the shelf brings to mind his Findarato clamouring to learn more of the Songs.  A pair of house slippers belonging to Angarato sits forgotten by the bedroom door.

* * *

 

 _Could he have done something differently?_ He had been at the edge of the ice with them. Nolo’s forces had already started across the ice. Looking over the vast expanse, his righteous fury over his father’s murder had quailed. Then came Lord Manwe’s pronouncement of the Doom. He had taken his banner and called for his troops to halt their march.

The biting cold had been such that he could barely speak. With faltering words, he tried to urge reason. The first was golden Findarato, his eldest, who took the banner from his father’s shivering hands. The fiery words of his uncle and cousins were enough reason for him to continue. _Should not their grandfather be avenged?_

“This is madness. Surely…”

“I know, atar. But I have to go. Curvo and many warriors have already crossed the sea. We cannot abandon them. I’m sorry.”

“Think of Amarie then,” he urged. He knew his son had started courting their bard’s youngest daughter.

“Please tell her I am sorry…” Banner aloft overhead, he stepped away from his father onto the ice.

Many of Arafinwe’s warriors would follow that banner across the ice. Next he tried to dissuade his younger sons. Angarato and Naro. _There are no laurels or glory in such a foolhardy march_ , he begged. They had already proven themselves worthy warriors in the training yard.   

“Do not seek to stop us. We will follow our brother.” Their eyes studiously avoided meeting his as they ploughed on, as if they feared their wills would waver as his had done.

Nerwen was so very young then, newly reached her maturity. His daughter had always been a little fey. Since she first started to speak, she had spoken of many strange things that came to pass. Arrangements were underway to send her to Irmo and Este to hone her gift before that ill-fated day. 

Many a time she had spoken of a realm across the sea over which she will rule in a distant time. _Had she not foretold of darkness and death befalling her uncle’s home when Feanaro was exiled to Formenos?_ Indis had chided her for her ill-wishing upon Feanaro’s House then.

“Sorry, atar. I will return someday, I promise,” his precious Nerwen had planted a light kiss upon his cheek before hastening off after her brothers. _How the memory of it burned even now._

He did not know how long he had knelt there at the ice’s edge, watching the bright beacons of his children’s hair fade into the darkness. He might have remained there for eternity if a few stragglers had not noticed their stricken lord and yanked him back to his feet and reality before he froze to death. He had ordered them and any elves yet to cross home to Tirion.

* * *

That was so long ago. Seasons turned. The moon waxed and waned. Elves were wedded and elflings born. Kin slain at Alqualonde and not touched by the Doom steadily left the Halls of Waiting and families reunited.

The joy and prosperity of his people gladdened Arafinwe’s heart a little although he still mourned loss of his children. The Doom hung heavy upon his heart. They say in distant Alqualonde, Earwen foresaw the deaths of her sundered children in her dreams. Brave Angarato and valiant Naro fell in a sea of flame, locked in battle against a foul creation of Morgoth. Loyal Findarato languishing in the darkness of his prison in great agony before his fea fled for the Halls. The Teleri were always one for gossip and their news flew along the road between Alqualonde and the city. Earwen’s visions would find the High King’s ear _. Three of his little ones in Mandos’ Halls._ No tidings, fair or ill, of Nerwen yet.

It was Findis who first brought him the good news. The Valar had been most merciful. One of his children is freed from the Halls, the Doom lifted from him in light of his valorous deeds in the Hither Lands. His son was newly re-embodied and regaining his strength in Este’s garden. He would come to Tirion once fit enough. The king fell on his knees and thanked the Valar.

“Amarie sits with him for now as he rests in Este’s care. Be warned, brother. Findarato is much marked by his time in Arda.”

 _One of the Exiles freed from the Doom,_ the streets were awash with excitement. _Was there hope yet for the others?_ Some claimed it was only a rumour or a jest by the Valar upon their king and a cruel one at that. Never had the royal court been so fully attended since the time of High King Finwe. Courtiers thronged the Great Hall. Guards peered curiously from their various posts, eager for a glimpse of their returned prince.

Findis grumbled as she arranged for the smoothest, quietest route for her returning nephew to the palace, lest he be mobbed by their overzealous subjects. The women of the royal house sat on the raised dais with their king, the first time they had done so in centuries. Their courtly robes were a little outdated but regal none the less. Indis wore the silver circlet of her dowager queenship and the simple white gown she always favoured. Anaire and Earwen were dressed in similar silver-trimmed dresses of blue and green. Nerdanel had declined to attend, mindful of her husband’s sins.

Findis wore the grey robes and white wimple befitting a helper of Este. She opened the grand doors a crack and frowned at the huge assembly.

“My lord, Prince Findarato wishes to seek an audience,” she announced as if she were a court herald. _Be gentle,_ her eyes admonished the nobles gathered.

A gasp arose from the assembly when the doors were thrown wide open. When the eldest son of Arafinwe left the city, he was a golden prince, seemingly invincible. The ner who stepped into the Grand Hall was his Findarato without a doubt. Physically he was unmarked. Yet his eyes were different, their light somehow diminished. They spoke of pain and grief, bloody battles and deep betrayals. _Not all marks upon an elf’s fea can be healed as easily as the scars of the hroa,_ Findis had warned, and their prince had run up against Morgoth’s foul sorcery.

Tradition demanded that the re-embodied prince present himself before his king and the court as all nobles were required to, and pledge his loyalty anew. _This is almost too much for his son._ His step was slow, almost hesitant and fearful. Thin and pale, he leaned heavily on his beloved’s arm as Amarie patiently guided him along.

 _Court protocol be damned._ The king rose from his throne, stepped off the dais and strode down the carpet in defiance of tradition.

“Ada,” the prince gasped in bewilderment as strong arms enfolded him.

“Welcome home, my son.” The High King wept freely. _The first of his brood has returned to Valinor. With the Valar’s blessings, the Doom will be lifted from their sundered kindred someday._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having some feels for the son of Finwe who stayed behind in Valinor. 
> 
> Quneya names updated.


	4. Neath the Greenwood Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas longs for adventure since he was an elfling. Thranduil is not so keen on his only child leaving the safety of their woodland home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elflings can be so exasperating at times.

“I am old enough to go to Laketown!” his son pouted and stomped his foot. He had wanted so badly to see the human settlement after hearing tales from the raft-elves who traded with the inhabitants on behalf of Mirkwood. His nanny had caught him trying to sneak onto one of the rafts under a deerskin and dragged her protesting charge back home. 

“No, you are. Not till you are fifty,” the elvenking chided as he pored over the reports from his guards. With a petulant huff, the youngster turned and stormed back to his room, where he would be confined until suppertime.

 The chamberlain stifled a smile as the little prince passed him. They would need to assign two of the guards to the prince’s door and another set outside his windows. It was just last week they caught the elfling climbing out his window with his tiny bow and quiver, saying he wished to hunt spiders. The chamberlain placed the scrolls Thranduil had called for before his lord.

“Do you think me a poor father, Galion?” the king asked as he rubbed his temples.

“Your Majesty only does what you deem is best for the Prince,” Galion replied with tact.

“Be honest with me, Galion!”

“Well, perhaps it would be best to allow the prince to leave the palace once in a while, perhaps the training yard or practice fields…”

“The yard? Are you insane? What if he gets wounded by accident? That was where he first heard of spiders…”

“No elf would hurt His Highness…”

“Still…” Thranduil shook his head. His only child was far too precious to him, but Legolas was growing up. It must be a lonely life for the young prince, having no siblings or playmates his age in the palace. His naneth had passed delivering a stillborn sister and no doubt mother and daughter now dwell in the Blessed Realm.

* * *

 

“Ada, I am old enough to join a patrol! Haven’t I trained alongside the men for nigh on twenty years since coming of age?”

“You are too…”

“Ada, I am no elfling to be coddled! You know from my instructors how I fare on the practice fields. Please let me join the warriors.”

“Very well, you may join a patrol. How about the Northern Marches…” Thranduil could not help beaming with pride. His son was now a young warrior. No one could touch him in his skills as an archer or swordsman. The elvenking was painfully reminded of his younger self. How he had been commanded by his father to remain with the wounded and healers in their camp while they rode into battle at the Last Alliance… He had watched his father and two elder brothers ride off and never return. Galion, then a lowly archer, limped back from the front when the battle was over and presented him with his father’s battered sword and shield.

“My Lord,” the old servant hailed his liege later in the halls after the patrols have ventured forth. “Beg pardon, but is it wise to allow His Highness to join the southern patrol? Our prince has persuaded Captain Tawalin you have granted him permission…”

“Say what?” Thranduil’s mind reeled. The southern patrols took them closest to Mordor and its denizens. It was no assignment for an untested warrior. The cavernous roof of the palace trembled at their master’s voice.

“LEGOLAS!”

“They left an hour past on foot… if Your Majesty rides…” Galion need not complete his sentence before a harried elvenking was spotted galloping out of the halls on his elk post-haste. A sulky Woodland prince would spend the next three years assigned to the hunting parties tasked with filling the palace larders.

* * *

 

“I really enjoyed Rivendell, ada. Elladan and Elrohir invited me to visit anytime…”

The diplomatic call across the mountains was a success. King Oropher would be proud, _or perhaps not_. Oropher never liked the Noldor. Still, in such troubled times, winning an ally like Lord Elrond was an asset. The young prince took to Elrond’s twins readily and the trio are now fast friends. Elrond also had a charming daughter who might be a worthy spouse for Legolas once she came of age.

“You can write to them,” the king had no intent of leaving his realm again so soon. Perhaps not for another two hundred years.

“Could we visit them in spring, please?”

“Sorry, we can’t spare that many guards. Spiders seem to be multiplying this year…”

* * *

 

The next spring…

“Where is my son?” a flustered king grabbed hold of his chamberlain.

“Sire, the prince has ridden out towards Rivendell…”

“How many guards are in his party?”

“None, sire. He insisted he could manage the journey alone...”

“Ai Valar! That boy will be the death of me!” Once more the inhabitants of the Forest Realm were treated to the grand sight of their king galloping out on his elk.

* * *

 

If there was one thing he could thank the meddlesome Noldor for, it was this. The elvenking smiled at the now familiar sight of his son and the guards leading their prisoner out for his daily walk.

Thranduil did not approve of Legolas joining the Noldor twins on their orc hunts, even though it honed his son’s fearsome prowess as a warrior. He did not approve of his heir spending seasons in the wilds, with the twins or their human foster-brother. He now allowed the prince to join the Southern marches with the veterans but it did not mean he liked it.

The Gollum was an ugly creature, all twisted and wrong. Thranduil could not see why Gandalf didn’t just have the abomination killed. Still, the duty of guarding it kept his son home, and most importantly safe by his side.

Today it seemed that the party had been delayed in their outing. _Perhaps their prisoner has been stubborn… A week in the dungeons should cure any further rebellion._ The king mused as one of the guards returned.

“Sire, we have lost the Gollum,” the flustered guard reported.

“Well, go find it,” the elvenking scowled. “Scour the forest and I will send word to the Council…”

“Er, sire… the Prince has ridden ahead to Rivendell to report the creature’s escape to…” the guard swallowed hard as the elven king went red, then white with fury.

“LEGOLAS!”

* * *

 

Along the path into the Misty Mountains, an elven prince paused in mid-song. Legolas was sorry he had not stayed to face his father’s wrath at their losing the Gollum. They did scour the woods for three hours before he dispatched a guard back to report to his father.

The prince took a deep breath of the crisp mountain air and smiled at the evening stars winking overhead. Soon he would have to stop for the night. The mountain passes are not safe for a lone wayfarer in the dark when the trolls and orcs are at their most active. A good campfire should deter the worst of them. He doubted his father would send out anyone to retrieve him now he has gotten this far from Mirkwood.

Of course losing the Gollum was a huge stain on Mirkwood’s honour, but the prince was sure he would find a way to make amendments to Lord Elrond and the Council. He hoped his friends, Elladan and Elrohir, would be there. _Who knows? Perhaps this is the start of a huge adventure for him._


	5. To Watch Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earendil and Elwing never meant to really abandon their elflings.

He watched them sail off west over the sea. His father was ailing from his mortal frailty and the poisoned wound from which he had never really healed, despite the best healers and time which had passed since Gondolin’s fall. Tuor managed to give his blessings to his marriage before he was carried onto the elf ship. The Ban of the Valar was upon them still. No crew would accompany his parents in their venture. Idril was adamant. She was not going to sit idly and watch her husband die.

He had learnt his craft under Cirdan’s guidance. Adventurous even as a boy, he would go further than any of the other mariners, such that many believe he is seeking the way west to Valinor. He does not know if he is seeking the way to Valinor. All he knew is that he is seeking a new land, a haven where his family and people will be safe, especially now that he is a father himself.

* * *

 

She waits patiently from the tower with her little ones close. It was once a watch-tower, back when their people feared attack from the sea. The danger is not there, not any more, with Cirdan’s mariners patrolling the bay. She wraps her little ones snugly, mindful of their half-human bloodline. The cold does not affect her so much.

Elrond and Elros would make a game of trying to spot their father’s ship. She sings to them the songs of old she had learnt at her nurse’s knee. Once she had a father and mother, and twin brothers, but they were gone now. Slain by the Kinslayers. She wonders at the brilliant light within the Silmrali that her parents had left her. Pure light. Yet it had cost so many lives. She wondered once if she should cast it into the sea but she could not. It was all she had left of her family. 

* * *

 

“Hush,” she coaxed her twins as she hides them in a sea cave. She would lead them away with the Silmaril’s light. 

The Kinslayers came for her like she expected as she ran towards the cliffs. She heard a scream of terror and turned, seeing a blood-splattered Maedhros emerging from the cave where her little ones were. Dead! He had slain her little ones like they did her brothers! The cliff edge was crumbling under her feet. Maglor approached, hand outstretched, all false promises and lies. 

_“Give us the Silmaril, and you can go on your way…”_

_“Never!”_  

She threw herself off the cliffs and thus departed Arda forever.  

* * *

It galled him that their elflings were being raised by the Kinslayers, far better than he ever did. Perhaps he had dreamed once of taking the twins onto his ship, and teaching them his craft when they were old enough. Now that would never come to pass. His ship sails the starry night - a beacon of hope to all. She waits for him in her tower on the Shadowy Seas. The Valar have spoken. They are forbidden to return to the shores of Arda.

Elwing feels the loss too and she misses them as badly as he. He watches over them in the night, when they sit with their Feanorion guardians. The tears and nightmares soon faded, replaced by laughter and love. He beamed with pride as Maglor praised his little Elrond for his skill at the harp or chuckled as young Elros tried his hand at wrestling with one-handed Maedhros. The halcyon days of their childhood soon drew to a close as the Oath beckoned to the sons of Feanor. They wept along with their elflings when they were sent to Gil-Galad’s court. 

It hurt when Elros chose the path of Man, for they knew he would never come to Valinor. Blessed by the Valar, Elros founded a kingdom of Man. Earendil watched his younger son age and pass beyond the Circles of Arda. Initially, he watched over Elros’ bloodline, searching in each new king his son. Elrond chose the path of an Elf, played the advisor to each successor. Alas, the bloodline weakened and Kin-strife tore the Elros’ kingdom apart. Earendil had to turn his face away then, for he could not recognise in the cruel later kings of Numenor his son’s blood.   

Elrond grew strong and tall both in strength and wisdom. Earendil watched his son take on the roles of advisor, loremaster, warrior, healer, elven lord… and father. 

He beamed down upon his twin grandsons as Elrond told them of their grandfather and grandmother, pointing out to the elflings Gil-Estel, the High Star of Hope. A girl-child soon followed, as fair as the Morningstar. For a while, Earendil lost sight of his younger son’s bloodline. It was too painful to think it had been snuffed out when Numenor was drowned for its evil. He believed that although Elrond continued as advisor to the descendants of Numenor who had stayed true. He believed no trace of Elros remained on Arda until the night Elrond brought a young orphan boy to his home.

 _Estel._ Elrond named the child thus. It was a Man, not Elf. Yet the child reminded Earendil of his younger son Elros. He was no doubt of Elros’ blood and a part of Elros’ spirit flowed through his veins. The child grew steadily  as both as warrior and a healer. Elrond also tried to impart to him the lore of his family though like Elros, Estel was a poor scholar in some matters. Like Elros, Estel was not musically inclined in the least and the harp Elrond gave him ended with its strings stripped to make fishing line. Elladan and Elrohir most likely had a hand in that mischief, for Arwen had long moved to Lorien by then.

Yes, he has seen much from his boat in the night sky, both in Arda and Aman. There were terrible wars in Arda where he had feared for the safety of his children. He had not intervened in such matters since the War of Wrath. The Valar informed him that Elrond had a role to play in the scheme of things before he leaves for Aman. It was Elrond’s lot to nurture the heirs of Elros, from which a new hope of Man would arise and usher in a new Age. 

For now, Elros’ heir is a mere youth, not quite ready to take on his destiny. Under Elrond’s watchful eyes and the Valar’s blessings, he will be worthy and ready someday. Earendil will watch over both Elrond and his ward and Elwing will no doubt send her blessings too.


	6. Don't Look Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three sets of twins, Maedhros reflects on their unlikely bond with Elwing's children.

_“No! Don’t leave us!”_

Maedhros the Tall dug his boot into his horse’s side, spurring his steed onwards. Behind him, he heard what could have been a sob from Maglor. The tiny voices were fading as they rode off into the night.

“Don’t look back, Kano,” he whispered, more to himself than his brother. He had to be strong for his brother and for the brats. It was for the best. The Houses of Nolofinwe and Arafinwe will take good care of Idril’s half-elven grandsons, Turgon’s heirs. Yet he could not understand why the tears came so readily to his eyes.

* * *

The first time they met was less than auspicious. The little brat had, for want of a better word, tried to kill him. A sharpened stick was little threat to him but the intent in the elfling’s eyes was undeniable. He had lashed out without thinking, backhanding the child so hard, he was sent tumbling into the dust out cold. Maglor had caught the brat’s brother, who was screaming and trying to run to his brother’s aid.

“Where’s Pityo?” he demanded, his face livid. The Silmaril had eluded them.

Maedhros stared at the blood upon his garments, _Pityo’s blood._ “With Telvo.” _Dead._ Maglor opened his mouth but did not speak. There were no words to say. Their little brother was gone.

“Elros!” the elfling squirming in Kano’s iron grip shrilled. Maedhros bent over the other child. “He lives,” he reported. Maglor grunted, tears streaming down his cheeks as he tied his captive. Elwing’s children were twins, just like the Ambarussa, just like the other pair he had failed to save. They set the children before them upon their horses and rode off into the night. Elros, still unconscious, was slung before him like a rabbit while his brother rode before Maglor with his hands bound before him. A half-hearted threat to slit his brother’s throat was enough to ensure Elrond’s cooperation. 

Maedhros wondered why they had acted as they did. Perhaps without the siren call of the Silmaril, perhaps it was simply to take hostages should Idril’s son come demanding vengeance for the slaughter of his people. Or perhaps it was something more.

Their sack of the Havens of Sirion had been a slaughter for their inhabitants. The seasoned warriors of Gondolin and Doriath had fallen earlier to allow the flight of their people to the Havens. The menfolk were away at sea when the attack came. The women and children fled for the cliffs, including Elwing and her children, to seek safety in the caves. The few young warriors who remained posed barely any obstacle to their army but their deeds would have made their fathers proud. It was to the blade of such a youth Pityo fell by, gasping out his last breath in his eldest brother’s arms.

They had not expected Elwing to defy them to the end and throw herself off the cliff. That Silmaril was lost to them, for they had seen a white bird arise from the waves, aglow with the jewel’s light.

* * *

In silence they rode back to their men, back to their fortress. Elros soon came to. Maglor treated the gash on his head with the herbs he carried. The elflings were too distraught to go much more than weep in the first few days. Elros could barely sit straight from the concussion he had suffered. Maedhros rode with the boy half-swooning against his chest or arm and was reminded of the time he took Moryo home after the young elf was thrown from his horse in the wilds of Aman.  

When they stopped to set up camp, he would place Elros on a bedroll near the fire. Maglor would cut Elrond free and the elfling would hasten to his twin. After the third day’s riding, Maglor stopped tying his charge’s hands. Maedhros never saw any need to bind Elros.

The twins spoke little to them but whispered to each other. It took a while to cajole them into taking food from their captors. Elros soon recovered from his injury in the Feanorian fortress. Yet they remained in the tower room where they had been placed instead of being moved to the dungeons as befit a prisoner. They were but elflings, and the deep dank cells were no place for children who seemed to like nothing better than gaze out of their tower at the stars.   

The boys’ dreams would be troubled for many months afterwards. Maedhros knew it was a mistake when he heard from the twins’ tower room one night, a familiar lullaby his brother had sung before for another pair of twins.

He recalled his twin brothers, how his mother would entrust them to his care so that she might complete a sculpture. He had taken care of his younger siblings after Kano, soothed their fears and played games with them. Now it was only him and Kano.

* * *

_Kano had checked all the camp but there was no sign of their little brothers. Their father was furious. The men should have marched out by now. The twins were young but a campaign was no time to play hide and seek._

_“Where’s Telvo?” Pityo came running as the smoke from the ships billowed into the sky. Maedhros recalled holding the twin back as he screamed for Telvo and the shock and horror upon his father’s face when the realization set in. Telvo had returned to the ships instead of spending the night ashore after a quarrel with his brother._

It was as if a part of Pityo’s heart died that terrible morning. During the seven long years of Maedhros’ captivity, it was Maglor managed to persuade Pityo to continue on. It was hard and it seemed Pityo might fade. The Ambarussa should never have taken that Oath at their tender age but it was too late.

The Silmaril’s call was too strong to resist for them when they brought death upon Doriath. Such needless death and destruction. The Feanorians’ losses were great for the warriors of Doriath had fought well. Kormo had led that charge, seeking out Dior and fighting to the death.

 _Another pair of twins, Dior’s sons._ They were the same age as Elrond and Elros during the Kinslaying. Their sister had escaped the city earlier with a loyal nurse. Dior’s lady-wife was slain in the nursery and Maedhros wondered which one of their lackeys did the cowardly deed. The two empty beds in the nursery with their matching coverlets struck him then. They reminded him of the twin beds in the Ambarussa’s bed chamber back across the sea. The pattern of autumn leaves on the coverlets was the same as those back home.

His rage was great when he learnt what had befallen the owners of the little beds. He might have killed the churl who left the children to the mercies of the wild if Maglor had not restrained him. He had galloped from the scene and spent many a day searching the dark woods until a concerned Maglor sought him out. It was too late for hope that Dior’s sons still lived.

Now another set of twins. In a more innocent age, Kormo had spoken of how fledgling birds might take another creature as their dam if some ill-fate had befallen their mother. Perhaps that was why Elros and Elrond were drawn to their captors. They were well-fed, clothed and sheltered. They had freedom to walk the courtyards and roam the fortress corridors.

As the horrors they had witnessed during the Sack faded, the boys came to regard their guardians as one would a father. Maedhros and Maglor had lost a piece of their hearts before they knew it. They grew to dread the day Idril’s son would come for his children.

They waited but Idril’s son never came for his sons. The children were effectively orphaned and the Sons of Feanor their guardians. The boys were as curious about the world around them as their father was said to be. Elros was the adventurous one, climbing up walls and trees and venturing onto the roof to see what lay beyond the fortress. It was not long before he was clamouring to join the hunters when they went into the woods. Maedhros laughed and set him to the practice yard to keep him out of mischief.

Elrond was quieter and preferred the ancient books of lore. He might be persuaded by his brother into some mischief, but he did seem to have a good deal more sense than to participate in some of his wilder schemes. The older twin had a thirst for knowledge and the scholarly Maglor soon took him under his wing and was teaching him the harp.

For once in many long centuries, they had true peace and a family. Yet things were changing and the outside world was closing in on their tiny bubble of peace. Scouts brought news of a mighty fleet from across the Sundering Sea. The High King Finarfin had sent aid with the Valar’s blessing.

Maglor had spotted a new star in the sky which was never there before and the brothers knew it for the Silmaril, set by the Valar out of their reach forever. Try as they might to shield their wards from the outside, it was not to be. The Oath beckoned them. They could not turn from it. Not with the blood of their father and brothers on it.

“Must we?” Maglor asked as Maedhros drafted the missive to be sent to Gil-Galad. Earlier they had tucked the little ones in, worn out by their games.

“We must. Would you have us bring them along as we ride forth on our quest, driven by our accursed Oath?” Maedhros snapped. He softened his tone a little. “They will be well-cared for…”

“Better than a pair of Kinslayers could…” Maglor nodded and absently strummed his harp. He understood but it did not hurt any less.

* * *

Many nights later on their quest, the Feanorions sat by their campfire and gazed at the stars. Maedhros wondered if Elros had a tutor to continue his education in the warrior arts under and if he had gotten his own bow and quiver. Maglor wondered if Elrond would ever get his Quenya grammar correct and if he had mastered the Lay of Leithian upon his harp. Most of all, they wondered if the half-elven sons of their hearts still watch the stars at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the eldest of Feanor's brood, I have this image of Maedhros and Maglor babysitting their little brothers when they were younger.


	7. Farewell, My Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After tragedy strikes Rivendell, a difficult decision must be made. Celebrian is reluctant but Galadriel understands her daughter best.

Galadriel had to admit her daughter was always a stubborn child. She and her husband had only one child despite their many years of marriage and regrettably, they had pampered and cosseted her ever since she first opened her baby eyes and smiled at her parents from her arms.  The household at Lorien and those who have served them before speak fondly of the silver-haired imp with the winsome smile and the many pranks she pulled. It was with some relief to both parents that Lord Elrond of Rivendell became their law-son. She had announced to her parents she would have him and no other as her husband the moment she clapped eyes upon him during their sojourn in Rivendell.

Elrond took wonderful care of their precious Celebrian and was a calming influence on her wilfulness. Motherhood mellowed her with the arrival of twins. As elflings, Elladan and Elrohir had vexed their parents with their mischief as their naneth had done.  Their little sister Arwen took after Elrond in her thoughtfulness.

Galadriel had sensed the tragedy before the first missive reached Lorien. Perhaps it was a mother’s intuition. It took a while for her to reach Rivendell, for there were many matters and duties to be assigned and seen to in her absence. The Lady of Lorien rarely left her domain lightly. Celeborn chose to be part of her travelling party.

They found the Last Homely House in chaos. Their law-son greeted them at the gate, worn and with lines of weariness and worry marking his face. He had been up at their poor daughter’s sickbed with nary rest or food, fighting to save her life. Celebrian was on a trip to visit her parents when her entourage was ambushed by orcs. Her guards were slaughtered and the lady carried off. A patrol chanced upon the grisly aftermath hours later. It was another two days before her sons located the foul creatures’ lair and rescued their grievously wounded naneth.

Galadriel immediately took charge of the situation. Elrond was sent off to get fed and rested. He was so tired he could scarcely stand. Celeborn took his grandsons aside to speak with the moment they rode in through the gate covered with orc-blood. Hopefully, his wisdom would temper their rage-driven campaigns against the orcs. He understood their recklessness was fuelled by their helplessness and anger over not finding their mother sooner. She spared a few moments to hug and soothe little Arwen, who was quite overwrought by the tumult.

“Grandnana… will nana die?” the elfling hiccupped.

“No, little evenstar. Your ada will save her…”  Although still an elfling, Arwen was already starting to show signs of the blossoming of great beauty, enough to rival her foremother, Luthien.

“May I come with you? Ada wouldn’t let me go to nana.”

“As you wish, little star.”

Galadriel wept when she saw her daughter in the Hall of Healing. The silver hair she had been so proud of was gone, cropped close to her scalp. Her face was bruised. The coverlet was drawn up to her chin and she whimpered in the throes of a nightmare. Immediately she regretted allowing Arwen into the chamber but it was too late.

“Nana! Wake up please…” Arwen cried into the coverlet. Celebrian’s eyes fluttered open. For a moment, Galadriel caught a glimpse of the stark terror in their blue depths. A bruised and bandaged hand reached out from under the coverlet and stroked the elfling’s hair tenderly.

“Shush, nana is here…” Celebrian managed a weak smile. She lifted herself off the pillows to plant a kiss on her daughter’s brow, even though it must hurt for her lip was split. “Run along now. Go fetch your ada.”

With a nod, Arwen hurried off. Celebrian struggled to sit up and turned to her mother.

“She shouldn’t be here. I asked Elrond not to let her see me…” her words faltered as Galadriel threw aside all decorum and embraced her.

“My poor child… Whatever have they done to you?”

Celebrian dissolved into a fit of tears as her mother held her and crooned a melody she had been fond of as a child. Elrond came, saw them and made an excuse about mixing a calming draught. He took Arwen with him to the apothecary to find the herbs. He understood that his law-mother wanted some time in private with his wife. Celebrian had tried to be strong despite the fears and nightmares which still plagued her. She would smile and act as if all were well but her wounds were not healing as well as they should and he had witnessed the violent episodes of sheer terror when the nightmares had her in their grip. Perhaps Galadriel’s wisdom might help. To lose her would be unthinkable.

* * *

 

The weeks passed and Celebrian recovered enough to rise from her bed and walk in the gardens. Celeborn was persuaded to return to Lorien. Haldir would keep the guards in order during his lord’s absence but to run Lorien for more than a month was well beyond him. The twins agreed to stop their campaigns against the orc bands for a while and keep their mother company. Little Arwen was naturally overjoyed. However, Elrond and Galadriel noticed the shadow which hung over Celebrian. There was a brittle air about her as if she were made of glass and was on the verge of shattering. Galadriel was reluctant to leave until she was certain her daughter had indeed healed both in fea and hroa.

Alas, their fears were confirmed one evening at supper when pursued by the unseen demons of her fear, Celebrian almost leapt off the balcony in a senseless panic. It took all of Elrond’s strength to restrain her, so great was her terror. A strong sleeping draught was administered and both husband and mother remained at her bedside until she awoke. The twins were tasked with soothing their traumatized little sister.

“I cannot leave! I refuse! I am sore and weary but I can’t…” Celebrian protested. When Elrond broke the news of arrangements for her travel to the Grey Havens to wait for a ship, his wife had flown into a tantrum the likes of which was not seen since her thirtieth year. At a loss, Elrond had begged his law-mother to talk sense into his wife.

“My child, you are fading. Elrond has only healed the wounds of your hroa but not the deeper wounds of your fea, wounds which can only find healing in Aman.”

“But to be apart from my beloved, my children…” Celebrian faltered.

“My dearest child. It’s no light matter for Elrond to make such a decision. It hurts him as much as it does you. There is nothing as painful as to be so far apart from one’s soul-mate. But he knows you are fading from your wounded fea and will be in Valinor by ship if not, in Mandos’ Halls. The Doom has been lifted from the Exiles. We will sail for Valinor one day, once the tasks set for us by the Valar on Arda’s shores are carried out.”

“Not all of us,” Celebrian breathed. She hobbled out to the balcony where the women could look upon the Peredhil siblings at their play in the garden. A blindfolded Elrohir attempted to catch hold of Elladan and Arwen as they danced about him in a blind man’s bluff. In a fit of giggles, Arwen allowed herself to be captured by her brother such that they tumbled onto the new snow.

“I know Elrond will join me, for he has already chosen his path. _They_ , have yet to make their choice. While I understand that the Choice will be offered at a time of the Valar’s or at the Peredhil’s choosing, it cannot be forced upon them…” Tears flowed down her cheeks unbidden.

“You fear leaving them because they may choose a path other that of their father,” Galadriel voiced. She felt the too-familiar twinge of foreboding in her chest as she gazed upon her grandchildren.

“I inherited the gift of the Sight from you, nana. I know one of mine will not follow.”

“Indeed, our destiny was already written in Eru’s song,” Galadriel replied softly. She knew which of the children Celebrian spoke of. _Their little evenstar._

“She is still so young…”

“Would you have her watch you fade? Would you have Elrond and the twins suffer that grief?” Galadriel rebuked in a tone much like what she had once used to bully her companions into moving on that long trek over the ice almost three Ages ago. Celebrian sobbed at her mother’s harsh words.

It was a good thing Celeborn was not around. Her husband was prone to relenting in the face of his daughter’s tears.  

“Come, dry your tears,” Galadriel softened her tone. “We have until spring before the first ships sail forth. Come, let’s join the little ones and leave the planning to Elrond and your father. May these precious days be filled with joy and smiles.”

* * *

 

Galadriel would return to Lorien with the first thaw so that Celeborn could bid their daughter a tearful farewell in the Havens. Elrond insisted that he accompany his wife to the Havens to ensure her well-being on the journey. Despite his best efforts, Celebrian’s wounded fea was impairing the healing of her hroa. Their children would remain in Rivendell’s safety, though the twins insisted on riding with them to the borders of their vale.

“Please, get well, nana…” little Arwen bravely held back her tears as she bid farewell to their parents. Elladan had thoughtfully retrieved a book of First Age tales from their library for his mother to pass her time with during the sea journey as they did not know how long it would take for her to reach the Undying Lands. Elrohir had managed to harangue the cook into baking two jars of that delicate sugared biscuit his mother was fond of. The numerous fond tales their grandmother had told them of her girlhood in Finarfin’s household, which would likely host their mother, had set their minds at ease. Finarfin will definitely welcome his Arda-born granddaughter with open arms and see to it that Celebrian was well-cared for. Galadriel had asked her daughter to send her father in Valinor her love before her departure for Lorien.

“I will, my little star…” Celebrian hugged her daughter and held her close, taking in that sweet scent of vanilla and wildflowers from her hair. It pained her that she will not be there to watch her grow up into adulthood, fall in love and wed her soul mate. She wished she knew more of the man who was destined to be her daughter’s beloved, but the visions were always hazy. She only prayed that the trials facing them would not be as great as those of Beren and Luthien.

“It grows late, we must move if we wish to be clear of the passes before nightfall,” their master-at-arms coughed. Reluctantly, Celebrian nodded her assent and released her daughter. She climbed onto the litter borne by six sturdy guardsmen, alongside which Elrond’s horse pranced restlessly.

_Goodbye my little evenstar, Nana loves you always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured that Galadriel's gift of foresight might have been passed down to her daughter.


	8. A Ray of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aredhel starts to question her place and her son Lomion might just be the reason. Abusive relationships implied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A look at the mother-son dynamics between Aredhel and her son.

_The lost maiden was rescued by a handsome knight from the perils of dark woods. They were wed and lived happily ever after._ Her mother once told her of such a tale. However, it was not her tale. Aredhel wondered how she had ended up where she was- wife to Eol of the Avari and cut off from her kinsfolk. She knew her mother would not approve. Anaire had not even approved of her associating with Celegrom and Curufinwe back in Aman. _How she missed her mother, and her father and her brothers who had passed into Mandos’ Halls!_ Her surviving brother Turgon was kind to her. He was almost overprotective. Gondolin was beautiful but she felt confined by the city walls, fair as Turgon’s realm was. 

She had no idea how she came to be separated from her companions and so lost in the woods. She had gone looking for Celegrom and found him away. _Would he be worried by her disappearance?_ Turgon would have sent his men to search for her. Or did he think her safely with their cousins? Eol came to her when she despaired of ever leaving the woods. She did not know why she agreed to be his wife. He was not her type, really. He was nothing like the Celegrom the Fair. Eol was dark in his looks and wore barbaric tattoos of the Avari upon his skin. She had thought those marks exotic. He was good to her, she had to admit. He brought home game from the forest so that she and their elfling never went hungry.

Her elfling. Lomion. He was her only ray of sunlight in those dark days, when Eol’s mood darkened and she bore the brunt of his temper. Her son would creep back to her and dry her tears once his father had gone off after marking her skin with bruises and welts. Sometimes she wondered why she tolerated Eol’s ill-use when she would have kicked Celegrom’s ass into Mandos’ Hall if he dared do the same. She was a warrior and huntress. Had she not run down the fierce boars of Aman with Celegrom in their youth? Perhaps the years sequestered in Gondolin had muted the warrior in her. Gondolin. Another reason for Eol’s displeasure. He hated the Noldor and forbade her from seeking out her kin, or even speaking of them to Lomion.

 _But how could she deny her son that small pleasure?_ He was always fond of the tales she told of her childhood in Aman and the hidden city with its noble houses. She would tell her elfling those tales when Eol was off hunting. She could not understand why she never stood up to Eol. Perhaps she had become her demure mother like she had always feared. Her naneth never argued with any decision her adar made. Anaire had stoically waved goodbye to them that day they left. Then again, she had never heard of or seen her adar beat her naneth like Eol did to her. 

Eol’s crude hovel and the dark woods was all she knew of now. She felt the dark trees closing in on her whenever she ventured out of the hovel. _When had the birds stopped speaking to her?_ Celegrom had taught her the language of the birds and she had spoken with birds in the woods of Arda before she wandered into Eol’s domain. Of course, she now understood the trees and birds here were under Eol’s spell. _Was it possible that she had been similarly enscrolled? Why had she been so meek in her husband’s presence although she ached for her kin?_

When Lomion came, Eol was not pleased. He claimed the infant was too weak to live and what would use would it be to them? She had stood up to him then to keep Lomion. Lomion thrived despite his father’s indifference. His mother ensured that he was loved but she also noted how he sought his father’s approval. He was overjoyed when on his twelfth begetting day, Eol finally deigned to bestow a name upon his offspring- Maeglin. After that day, Eol started taking his son with him when hunting.

Maeglin was now Eol’s and Aredhel wept silently. Now she was all alone. She forced a smile to her face when Lomion came back one day and proudly showed her the tattoos Eol had marked him with. Tracing the marks, Aredhel reflected that Eol had marked his son as one of the Avari. The Noldor found the intentional marring of their skin distasteful although scars won in battle were often worn with pride. Even little Idril would show off her bare feet when she danced, badly scarred from her long march across the Helcaraxe after she wore out her shoes. Thinking of her cheerful niece brought tears to her eyes. 

“Why do you weep, nana?” Lomion asked hesitantly in Sindarin. The use of Quenya was forbidden by Eol. 

“I was thinking of your cousin and your uncle…” 

“In the hidden city? You wish to see them, nana?” 

“Yes.”

“Do you wish to leave?”

“Yes,” the tears poured down her cheeks. “But I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. We can,” Lomion reassured her and gave a fleeting hug to her. His father was calling from outside their home. It would never do to have him storm in and catch them speaking of Gondolin or his mother’s kin. Weeks passed and then months. She bore Eol’s temper the best she could. Often the chores were not carried out to his liking or the dinner was poorly cooked. Eol would always send Lomion out of the house before beating her. Her son would always creep back in when his father left her to dry his mother’s tears and treat her bruises the best he could.

* * *

 

The chance came suddenly one day when Lomion ran into the house where she was darning some of Eol’s clothes. 

“Nana, we must leave now, while Ada is away.” There was no time to pack. With only the clothes upon their backs, they ran forth. Lomion led her down a trail she had never seen before, despite her frequent wandering in the woods. As they sprinted through the trees, the trees seemed to thin and the sunlight brightened. Lomion had to shield his eyes from the light for he had been raised in the dim light of his father’s woods for so long. Hope soared in Aredhel’s heart and she felt the weight of the past years fall from her. 

“Come, this way!” she urged. She now recognized the familiar trails which would lead her home, home to Gondolin. For a week they travelled, barely stopping for rest or to forage for food. For the first time in years Aredhel laughed when they paused to fish from a brook, grabbing a fat trout with her hands. It was as though she had awoken from a long nightmare and was now starting to live once more. 

She found the hidden gateway without much difficulty and identified herself and her son. The sentries were shocked by the change in her and the fact that she was still alive when their king had mourned her as lost. Turgon was sent for and he came with Idril. With halting words, she related her tale. Her brother was alarmed by the change in his once-carefree sister and the half-Avari child with her. Her hair no longer shone like it once did and her face was lined and wan. Her white hands had coarsened from the harsh chores which were her lot over the past years. She shrank under her brother’s scrutiny. He surely thought it preferable if she had joined with Celegrom, Kinslayer as he may be. At least he was a Noldo elf and a prince befitting a princess like her.

Idril, sweet Idril, simply embraced her aunt and wept with her as her new cousin stood awkwardly to the side. The splendour of Gondolin had all but overwhelmed Lomion, whose world until a few days ago was the dark and narrow woods of his father about their crude hovel. Aredhel smiled as she thought of how she would introduce her brother’s city to her son. She would take him to the hidden nooks in the rose garden and show him the blossoms Idril cultivated with her. She would take him to the guard tower and show him where the falcons nested.

All her plans were to come to nought. The guards came with a prisoner they had captured attempting to breach the gate. It was Eol. Once again Aredhel’s spirit plummeted into despair. He would demand they leave with him. Turgon was having none of that and shouted for his guards. Now that Eol had entered Gondolin, he would not be allowed to leave alive lest he revealed its location to Morgoth’s creatures. 

“No, spare him, please!” Aredhel beseeched. She had noted the stricken look upon her son’s face. No matter his flaws, Lomion still loved and looked up to his father.

It was too late. Eol announced he would prefer death for himself and Maeglin then to bow and scrape before Turgon in his gilded city. The javelin was in his hand and aimed for… 

“No!” Aredhel leapt across the room, shoving her son out of the javelin’s deadly path. Idril screamed. Pain and warmth blossomed about her middle. Aredhel looked down to see the dreaded spear had pierced her through before her legs failed her and she collapsed. She was carried from the room by an alarmed courtier, was it Glorfindel? She heard her brother’s furious shouts, Idril’s calling for the healers and her son’s pleading.

* * *

 

The javelin was poisoned and the wound mortal. Within the Halls of Healing, their long-lost princess was dying. Idril stayed by her bedside, chafing and kissing her hands in an attempt to comfort her. 

“Please, do not let my brother kill Eol… he mustn’t die… for Lomion’s sake…” her words trailed off as Namo’s call became more insistent.

Idril could only rub her hands wordlessly. Enraged by the attack upon his sister and nephew, her father had already carried out the sentence. Eol was dead, his body broken from his fall from the city walls, food for the buzzards. Her soon-to-be orphaned cousin had witnessed his father’s end, overlooked by everyone until Turgon heard his broken sobbing. Maeglin or Lomion would now be raised in the hidden city in the Noldorin manner as a member of their House despite his Avari blood. Once they had sorted out the tutors and…

“Nana!” Lomion rushed into the room despite the disapproving stares of his minders. Such emotion was unbecoming for the child of a Noldo princess. He had shed his coarse leather jerkin for a courtly robe in the Noldorin style and his wild hair had been washed, trimmed and braided. The feral look in his eyes remained.

“Nana!” he shook his mother by the shoulders but she did not respond.

“I’m sorry, Lomion. She has gone into the Halls of Waiting…” Idril broke the news as gently as she could to the new orphan. The floodgates broke open then. Idril hugged the child as he cried over his parents’ death. She would have to be the one to show her cousin the falcon’s nest and the hidden roses in his mother’s stead.


	9. A Father's Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingolfin tries to protect his children in the Hither Lands, and finds he has failed.

A father’s duty is to protect his children and Fingolfin felt he had failed them all. It had started as the duty of a son and brother when he marched with Feanor in pursuit of Morgoth, the killer of their beloved father. Somehow Feanor chose to abandon them on the jewelled sands in Aman after he and his sons had crossed the Sundering Sea. The burning fires of the Teleri fleet could be seen from Valinor.

Finarfin had seen sense when confronted with Manwe’s herald and the Doom. He had beseeched them to return to Tirion, but few heeded him. Not even his children.  _Would his children had turned back had he taken Finarfin’s advice? Surely all those lost on the ice would have been spared._

The endless biting cold dimmed their spirits on that treacherous march. Many elves would fall prey to the crevasses which opened up under their feet without warning, casting them down into the dark icy waters below to drown. More simply laid down and never rose again. Turgon’s beloved wife was one of those lost.  _Turgon, his eyes dim, clutching onto his young daughter as he stared at that dark patch of water where his wife had been moments before._

Fingon had played his harp ceaselessly to keep up their spirits, until his fingers cracked and bled. Irisse had sung herself hoarse. His youngest Arakano had kept close to his father, seeking comfort from his presence. All the bravado had been leached out of his young warrior in that dreary march.

He had tried to urge Turgon to continue but his second eldest would not heed him or his weeping daughter. It was Finarfin’s brood who would between them manage to bully and urge Turgon back onto his feet.  _Think of your young daughter,_  Finrod had chided.  _Would you have her lose her father too?_

* * *

 

Their losses were too heavy when they reached the shores of the Hither Lands finally for them to stand against Morgoth, even if joined with Feanor’s army. Feanor was dead, his eldest son captured. Maglor was no leader and the army was in disarray. Maglor suggested Fingolfin step in to take command. Maglor’s brothers were not so accommodating. They argued that their brother was High King by birthright and there was no indication he had perished. Let Maglor take control of their forces as Maedhros’ second.

In the midst of all the debating, Fingon sneaked off alone and rescued his cousin. Maedhros handed over the kingship to his uncle and rescinded forever his House’s claim to the throne. The blood-ties of Finarfin’s brood to Thingol proved invaluable in securing them allies in Beleriand.

Life in Beleriand was fraught with perils and Morgoth sent forth all manner of fell beasts and dark creatures to harass them from the fastness of Angband. Finrod and Turgon were inspired to seek out hidden places to build their cities and struck out from the halls at Lake Mithrim. It had hurt when Turgon took Irisse and Idril with him to live in Gondolin.  Fingolfin comforted himself the thought that daughter and granddaughter would be safe.

The House of Feanor had already tasted loss with the Amrod’s death, a tragic accident his brothers claimed when questioned, and their father’s death. For a while it seemed his House was favoured by the Valar and protected. The illusion was shattered that day at Lammoth when the orcs attacked. His youngest had run ahead of his warriors and hewed a path deep into the orc-ish army. Arakano’s brave action had turned the tide in their favour but it was to cost the brave warrior his life.

As he watched the funeral pyres of the fallen burn, he thought back to how his Arakano would clamour to be allowed to spar with the house warriors although he was too young for to join partake of their training.  _He’s as impatient as you,_  Anaire would always say with a smile.

More tragedy was to dog his House, seeking out his daughter despite the secrecy of Gondolin where her brother ruled as king. He gnashed his teeth in helpless rage when the news reached him that she had left the city and eluded her companions in the forest. It would be many cycles of the sun before she returned to her kin in Gondolin, only to be swiftly struck down by the same elf she had wedded.

 _How she must have chafed inside Gondolin like some bird in a gilded cage! How she must have languished, enscrolled by that foul Dark Elf into marriage!_ There was a son, his grandson, but Fingolfin had no desire to meet the elfling. Let Turgon see to the misbegotten brat’s upbringing. He could never think of Irisse as wife or mother to anyone. She was his daughter, forever youthful and merry, light of feet and of voice. She was his little girl who liked nothing better than singing and dancing in the woods among Yavanna’s creatures or racing down the forest trails like Nessa’s deer.

* * *

 

The Siege has broken. Morgoths’ forces were pouring forth from Angband, overwhelming the Feanorion armies and forcing the haughty Sons of Feanor into flight. Many of the Noldor perished in the fierce fighting. News reached their High King. Fingolfin’s blood boiled in rage even as he sorrowed over the lives lost.

“Adar, here’s your armour,” Fingon’s voice was strained as he handed his father his breastplate. He knew better than to ask his father not to ride forth. It was his duty as High King of the Noldor to protect his people.

“Fingon, listen well. Should I not return, you must lead our people…”

“Ada! You will return. Don’t…”

Fingolfin shushed his eldest. He pinched Fingon’s lips together lightly in a familiar gesture from back when Fingon was a mere elfling. After Arakano, Fingon had taken most strongly after him. Fingon must take on the kingship and lead wisely for the Noldor to survive.

“I do this not only for our people, Fingon. But also for you and your brother… understand?”

Blinking away tears, Fingon nodded. His father enfolded him in one last hug before he strode forth, girded for his final duel against Morgoth. It was a mad gamble but one he was willing to take, if he could protect his children.

* * *

 

_The Halls of Waiting…_

Few of the Exiles rested easy in the Halls. Fingolfin shuffled along. Time has no meaning here. Arakano had long grown tired of hearing his father’s valiant stand against Morgoth. Like his father, he roamed the endless halls when sleep eluded him. Irisse was not ready to meet anyone yet, Lady Nienna explained. His daughter had been put in Nienna’s care to heal, deep within the Halls. There were the tapestries woven by Vaire on the walls. He was alarmed when he saw one depicting the Battle of Unnumbered Tears and his Fingon’s demise.

Fingon drifted into Namo’s keeping and was reunited with his father.

“I tried, Ada. I’m sorry… I wasn’t good enough a king…”

“You did well, my son. I am proud of you,” he embraced his eldest son once more before the weariness took over and Fingon fell into the fitful sleep common to the elves whose fea newly hailed from the Hither Lands. Perhaps his duty was not quite through yet. Fingolfin sat down beside his sleeping son and cradled his head in his arms. He did not know when Arakano shuffled in and joined them, leaning against his shoulder in repose. Time stood still within the Halls as the world sped on outside.

* * *

 

“Gondolin has fallen!” Someone roused Fingolfin with his cry of dismay. “Thank the Valar, Idril and her son have escaped…”

Fingolfin let loose a weary sigh. Now all his children are within the Halls of Mandos.

“Come, let’s rest a while…” he beckoned to Turgon and his son obeyed, lying down next to the still-sleeping Fingon on the grey tiles.

“What do we do now, atar?” Arakano murmured sleepily like some elfling.  

“We wait for the Valar’s forgiveness and the lifting of the Doom, that we may all be reunited with your mother in Tirion.”


	10. Two Wolf Pups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins are known for their mischief, until their little adventure almost ended in tragedy.

“My Lord! See what mischief those two… _pups_ have wrought!”

Elrond looked up from the household accounts he had been perusing. He bit down on his bottom lip to keep from laughing. Glorfindel the Balrog Slayer stomped into his study, clad only in a towel and with his hair a shocking bright pink. The twins have added yet another victim to their list. Barely an hour ago, Erestor had come complaining of vinegar in his wine-flask. Elrond had not the heart to tell him that the twins had added a dye as well, rendering the advisor’s tongue a brilliant blue.

“And why are Erestor’s lips blue? I just passed him in the hall…” Glorfindel asked after he was done venting his spleen against the youngest and most mischievous members of the Last Homely House.

“Nothing to worry about. The colour should fade in a few days, both Erestor’s lips and your hair. My apologies, old friend. I will speak to them.”

“A few days? I have a patrol to lead out tomorrow morning and I can’t go out looking like this! Erestor can hide in his office but not me …”

“Calm yourself, _mellon nin._ You can wear a helm or if you wish for something lighter, there is a linen headgear from the south I believe will look quite debonair on you. Who knows, you might just start a trend…” Elrond coaxed Glorfindel out of his office and back towards the baths. The captain was dripping on the carpeting and it would be hell to get rid of the damp spots.  

The twins were prone to acting up when Celebrian was away visiting her parents. Elrond thought them too young to accompany her. He had experienced some of his sons’ mischief first-hand. Salt in the sugar bowl, his coloured inks mixed up, dried leaves and mud in his slippers… 

Having placated his master-at-arms, Elrond took out a bottle of wine from his desk and poured out a measure into his cup. He took a sip and immediately spat it out. _Salt. The twins must have emptied an entire salt cellar into his wine._  

* * *

 

“What do we do next?” Elrohir asked his twin.

Lord Elrond had given them a stern talking-to. They had to apologise to Erestor, Glorfindel and their cook. The cook was not pleased at finding beetles in the flour bin and that bucket of water perched on the door almost had her tendering her resignation. In addition, Erestor had set them to work in the scriptorium so to better reflect on their behaviour. At thirty-eight, they were no longer infants to be watched over by a nurse. The twins had already gone through twenty different nurses ever since they started walking. Any nurse in the Peredhil house would shortly find an irresistible urge to leave for the Grey Havens.

“Let’s go explore the cave behind the waterfall,” Elladan shrugged. He was bored with copying  out the ancient scrolls. Lord Elrond had gone out to meet with a large group of Rangers camping just outside the vale. He had gone out alone on his grey mare dressed practically in riding tunic, leggings and cloak. He had his bow slung over his back and sword at his belt. The Lord of Rivendell might even spend the night in the Edain camp before returning in the morning.

“The waterfall? We are not allowed near there, not without a grown-up,” Elrohir gasped. They had discovered the cave a few summers back during a picnic with their parents. The twins had wanted to venture beyond the cave mouth but their mother had called them back. They have been sternly warned never to leave the safety of their compound without an adult. Despite Elrond’s powers and Glorfindel’s patrols, there was always a chance some dangerous creature might slip past the vale’s defences. _Had not a large wolf been sighted near the woodcutter’s cottage on the ridge the past fall?_ A courting couple was badly mauled before Glorfindel tracked down and destroyed the beast.

“Last one out the gate is a rotten orc!” Elladan threw down the gauntlet and sprinted from the room, leaving scattered scrolls behind him.

“You’re the orc!” Elrohir replied as he chased after his brother.

The twins were unchallenged as they dashed through the house, pausing only to attain some lembas and water-skins from the kitchens. They saddled their ponies and rode off to the waterfall cave.

They found the small cave without any difficulty. Tethering their horses to a nearby oak, the twins commenced their exploration. As they approached, they were hit by a foul odour.

“El, I think we better go… it’s getting late…”

“What? After we got here? Are you chicken, little brother?”

“No.”

Hairs rising on the back of their necks, the twins cautiously entered. There were a few scraps of well-chewed hide underfoot. Something had taken up residence. The cave ended a hundred or so yards in and it seemed empty at first.

“Aw, look…” Elrohir grabbed his twin by the elbow. There were three dark shapes towards the back of the cave. Wolf pups. The little pups were thin. One was already dead while its siblings huddled against the rock in fear. The surviving puppies were not well at all. They sniffled and whined and kept falling over their own paws.

“Let’s get them to Ada. He’ll know what to do…” Elrohir suggested and bent to pick up a struggling wolf pup.

“El-, we have company…” A soft padding forced both twins to turn back to the cave mouth. To their horror, they saw the only exit was blocked by the largest wolf the elflings had ever seen. The she-wolf growled and pounced on the elf holding her pup.

“Elrohir!” Elladan screamed and hastened to his brother’s aid. With his bare hands, he hit at the beast. Angered, the she-wolf turned on Elladan. The twin tried to wrestle the wolf off him to no avail.

“Run! Get help!” Elladan shouted before the bulk of the wolf floored him.

“Elladan!” Shaken and bleeding, Elrohir staggered to his feet and cast about him for some weapon. The wolf’s jaws were snapping at Elladan’s arms as he fought to shield his head and neck. If he were to ride back to the Homely House, it would be too late for his brother.

“Elladan! Elrohir!”

A familiar and welcome voice rang out.

“Ada!” Elrohir’s heart jumped as Elrond came bounding into the cave, sword drawn. Sensing a new threat, the she-wolf abandoned her attack on the elfling and spun round to face his father. Elrond had been riding back home and made a detour to replenish his supply of athleas. The route took him past the waterfall when he was startled to hear his sons’ screams.

The wolf leapt but Elrond was quicker. With a pained whine, the wolf perished as the Elf-lord plunged his blade into the animal’s heart. Panting, he turned to face his sons.

“Ada, we’re sorry…” Elrohir started with a sob.

“Elrohir, we need to help Elladan. Get my saddlebag now,” his father said sternly. Elladan was moaning from the pain of his wounds. Both his forearms were shredded to the bone. A heavily- bleeding gash to the thigh needed to be staunched.

Elrohir brought the saddlebag where his father kept his medicines and bandages, holding his arm awkwardly. His injuries were less severe than his brother's. The claws had ripped through his tunic into his back and fangs had torn his shoulder open, narrowly missing the major vessels of his neck.

With soothing words and skilled hands, Elrond treated his elflings’ wounds. Elrohir was able to ride still, despite having his injured arm in a sling. Elladan could not hold the reins and Elrond set him up on his own grey mare. He dragged the she-wolf’s carcass from the cave and tied it over Elladan’s pony. Another wolf-rug in the Hall of Fire would be nice. Glorfindel would have driven off or killed her anyway. There was no place for a wolf so near Rivendell, especially with vulnerable elflings roaming the woods.

“Ada,” Elrohir called out softly.

“Yes, ion nin?”

“What about the puppies? They are …”

“Sick. C-Could you save them, adar?” Elladan added to his brother’s words.

Elrond scowled and held up the two shivering wolf pups he had under his cloak. The pups were very ill and might not survive long.

“I will try but if they live, they will be your responsibility. You will have to ensure that they are fed, bathed and trained…” _With the Valar’s blessings, let this be a lesson to you two in responsibility._

* * *

 

_Two weeks later._

 “Argh! No peeing on my bed, Laure!” Elladan’s voice shrilled. “Come back with my boot!” Elrond looked up from his wine with a smile. Both his sons had healed nicely from their encounter with the she-wolf and were up and about. Both wolf pups recovered from their illness with the help of the hound-masters’ de-worming medicine and were now healthy and curious puppies, waiting to be cared for and instructed by their new masters.  

“Ow! Stay! Russa, stay!” Elrohir was having similar difficulties training his wolf pup. “Let go of my foot!” Elrond made a mental note to leave out more ointment and bandages in the House of Healing for his younger son’s use. That reddish-brown pup of his did have a nasty nip.

Elrond dug his feet into the wolf-skin rug with a contented sigh. Across the hall, Glorfindel and Erestor exchanged knowing smiles. There had been no further complaints of pranks by their lord’s sons. Not when they were too busy trying to train and care for their new pets. The pups did cause their share of mischief to the household. Erestor’s slippers were well-chewed by the pups when he left them outside his chamber for an hour. However, their antics paled in comparison to their owners’. A pair of ruined slippers was a small price to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is wondering, yes, the twins named their puppies after Maedhros (Russandol) and Maglor (Makalaure).


	11. Blueberry Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dis bakes pie and stays at home like a good dwarf woman should, but it is so hard letting her sons go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realised that I have been focusing much of my chapters on the Silmarillion and the elves. Here is a look at the dwarves from the Hobbit.

Dwarf women rarely left their homes, unless it was under the direst of circumstances - like when a rampaging dragon was roasting many a hapless neighbour to a crisp. Yes, they had fled then, prince and princess, guard or servant alike. Even now she still missed the Lonely Mountain where she had spent her girlhood, despite having carved out a new life in the Blue Mountains.

“Oh, Kili, stop that…” she chided her younger son as the bearded infant in her arms grabbed a fistful of her beard-braid and tugged. She winced, even at this tender age her son had a strong grip. Nearby her eldest son puttered about impatiently. They had a large blueberry pie in the oven baking. She had learned the recipe from a Mannish woman whose village they had sought refuge at during that long and difficult trek. It was her husband’s favourite and apparently her son’s as well.

“Mama, Uncle!” Fili squealed and ran out of the door to be seized by a pair of muscular arms and hoisted into the air by her brother. Rousing herself from her comfortable chair, Dis rose to welcome her brother as he stepped into the room.

She knew it the moment she saw Thorin’s face and the way his rough hands twisted at the hood in his hands.

“Sister, your husband has gone to his rest…”

It was a band of roving orcs which had surprised the party on their return from the Mannish hamlet over the hills where their menfolk traded their skills and goods. The fighting had been fierce before the orcs where slain or driven off. The winter supplies they had obtained from the village were lost, stolen or lying ruined amidst the blood and mud. Of their party of thirteen, three had fallen to orcish blades, the father of her beautiful sons among them. Many more were wounded. They had buried the dead under a cairn along the trail, for their ponies had been slain and they had not the strength to bear them home for burial.

_You must be strong. You are still a princess of Durin’s line, and mother of two little ones._ She saw the message in Thorin’s eyes. Sensing the tension, Fili started to whimper. Kili began bawling. She busied herself soothing her sons. The pie was starting to burn in the oven but she could not care.

* * *

 

“Kili! Fili! How many times must I tell you not to shoot arrows in the hall?”

“Run!” the brothers chortled and sprinted out of their hiding place and out the door at their mother’s voice.

“Not enough times clearly,” Dwalin chuckled and he yanked the arrow out of the slice of pie he had been enjoying. He bit a large blueberry off the arrow’s tip where it had been speared. “Have you considered what we have spoken?”

“If my brother wants my sons as his heirs, he would have approached me directly…” Dis pointedly removed the rest of her pie from the table to the older dwarf’s dismay.

“We, the Council, have spoken of it. Your respected father has yet to return and his heir Thorin will be crowned king. We must accept that King Thrain has fallen to the fell beasts…” Dwalin tried to stab another slice of pie with his fork but she was quicker despite the extra pounds she had gained since having her sons.

“Why my sons?” Dis spun the pie pan out of reach and Dwalin yelped as both fork and dwarf tumbled onto the flagstones.

“The king must name an heir. Your brothers have no sons of their own. The only heirs of Durin’s line are Fili and Kili,” Dwalin explained as he rubbed his back.

“Thorin is still young. He might wed. What then, if his wife should bear him an heir? Will Fili and Kili be cast aside like an old boot?”

“Dis, you know your brother has no inclination to settle, not since…”

Dis closed her eyes as the memory assailed her. _The stench of charred flesh, the screams both of terror and pain. Thorin shouting out a name above the din and chaos. A terrific blast of flame. Hela’s abode was a charred ruin. The heat had scorched even the marble pillars Thorin had gifted her house with._ She had been so jealous once of Hela, the blond dwarf woman who had usurped all of her brother’s attention. Thorin had never looked at another dwarf-maid the same way since.

“They will continue living under your roof, but they will be tutored in matters of diplomacy and kingship and trained as princes…”

“Kili too? Surely one heir is enough.”

“Aye, the Council of Elders felt it best not to separate the brothers. These are uncertain times, Dis. We feel it prudent to have a spare…”

Dis snorted. “It is not enough that you take one of my sons, you have to take both!”

It was a matter of formality that she was asked for her consent. Fili and Kili would be raised by their uncle as princes no matter what Dis wanted. The decision of the Council outweighed the selfish wishes of a dwarf woman. At least Thorin allowed his nephews to continue living with their mother instead of in his halls as the king’s heir was expected to do.

The boys revelled in the awe of their few playmates at their new status. Dwarf children were few, even in a population as large as that in the Blue Mountains. They chafed at the long hours they were required to study the lore and language of their people. They delighted in the warrior training they were allowed under Dwalin. Above all, they enjoyed the times they were allowed to accompany their uncle or the elders on journeys. Those times were the hardest to bear for their poor mother.

* * *

 

Dis sat by the fire sewing new hoods for her boys. Her boys were tucking into their favourite blueberry pie for dessert after a hearty supper of potato and sausage casserole, green pea soup and pumpernickel bread. Young dwarves her sons’ age were known for their healthy appetite at the table.

“Mama, we are going on a journey with Uncle,” Fili announced. _Another one? So soon after their trading trip to the Mannish village?_

“Where to?” Dis asked with feigned disinterest. Fili and Kili were at a difficult age for young dwarves, prone to wild flights of fancy instead of rolling up their sleeves and getting to work at their craft as a proper dwarf should.

“Over the hills,” Kili chirped.

“And far away,” Fili added. “We’re going to reclaim Erebor!”

Dis dropped her needle. “My sons! What folly is this? The dreaded dragon lives still and guards the caves…”  

“It’s no folly. Uncle Thorin says we will go reclaim the land of our forefathers,” Kili insisted.

“We have a wizard to help us! It will be a great adventure! Dwalin and Balin will be joining us…” Fili added.

Dis’ fingers itched to yank Thorin’s beard braids off his chin. Her brother had no business filling her sons’ heads with such silly notions. Erebor was lost to them so long as Smaug breathed. _How could one slay a dragon? Many dwarves and men had already tried and died for their pains._

“Mother, Uncle says we are to leave at dawn. Please grant us your blessings for our venture,” both sons beseeched. Dis held her tongue and swallowed a good many words she had on its tip about adventures, foolhardy dwarves and meddling wizards. Instead, she picked up her sewing needle. There was only one reply she could give.

“Very well, I grant you my blessings, but only after I have finished sewing those warm blue hoods for you.” She only wished she had been given more time to bake some more pie and baked goods for them.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really sure about a woman's place in Dwarf society since we do not see any in the LOTR and Tolkien's other Middle-Earth works. In fact, Dis is the only Dwarf woman named. Given that two thirds of dwarves are male and the few females stay home without venturing out, my guess is a highly patriarchal society with the males making most of the community's decisions.


	12. Giving Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilraen worries for her son. Seriously tragic and depressing stuff.

_“I gave Hope to the Dunedain; I have kept no hope for myself.”-_ Gilraen

By torchlight he made his way to the House of Healing. He could sense the copper tang of blood in the air before the first cries came from the sentries. “Healers! We need healers!” Already the Lord of Imladris was tying on his white apron and directing the apprentices to light the stoves and ready the bandages and herbs.

It was a band of Rangers and Glorfindel’s patrol, many wounded. The Rangers had been surprised by orcs in the pass and put up a fierce defence before Glorfindel’s patrol chanced upon the battle and put the orcs to rout. Some of the wounded might not live to see the dawn.

Clad in his nightrobe and bed-slippers, Erestor was up and directing the wounded to be carried within the House and separated according to the severity and nature of their hurts. The lightly-wounded were tended to by his twins and the apprentices while those with more grievous hurts were tended to by the skilled healers of his house. The air was sweet with the scent of athelas from pots heated on the stoves.

The elf-lord went from patient to patient, Man and Elf alike, administering an antidote for poison here, instructing an apprentice to apply a poultice there. He stopped before a young man with unruly hair and the beginnings of a beard. The man grinned rakishly. A crude bandage had been wound round his head, covering one eye. He sat with his left arm limp at his side, the alignment wrong. His tunic was bloodied fresh red from a gash to his side.  Elrond frowned at the sight of his foster-son.

“Ada, please… It’s just a scratch…” Estel forced a smile despite the pain. He had started riding with the Rangers recently.

“Elladan, bring some bandages,” Elrond ordered. “Elrohir, too. We need to put his shoulder back in.”  The twins came scurrying. They needed no telling.

With skilled hands, the elf-lord cleaned out the worst of the wounds once the twins had forced the dislocated arm back into its proper place and steadied it with a sling. The gash in his side needed stitching, as did the nasty gash on his brow. There was no poison, thankfully. His eye was undamaged. There was a contusion on the side of his head and a possible concussion from being thrown off his horse in the melee. _Estel always has a thick skull,_ Elladan jested. _Comparable to a dwarf’s._

Already tales were told in the yard outside of Estel’s valour in the fight. He had charged far ahead of the Rangers at the orc chieftain, slicing off his head with his sword, before being surrounded on all sides until Glorfindel came to his rescue. In those frantic moments, he had slain another two orcs.

Elrond chided his foster-son for his foolhardiness as the healers went about their tasks. The twins have also retreated to see to the other wounded. The elf-lord’s keen ears picked up soft, deliberate footsteps entering the House of Healing.

“Nana…” Estel’s eyes flickered at something above Elrond’s right shoulder. Elrond turned in time to see a flash of silver and white disappear from the doorway. Gilraen had fled rather than see her wounded son. The pain in Estel’s eyes so stark that Elrond lied.

“It was only Losse or one of the junior apprentices gone to fetch more bandages. Your mother is probably asleep still. It is very late…”

“Perhaps I hit my head harder than I thought,” Estel murmured drowsily.

“I will get your brothers to sit with you for a bit, just to be sure all is well.”

Elrond marvelled at how it had become so natural for him and his sons to relate to Estel as one of their family. They had not had that level of kinship with the other fosterlings. Perhaps it was because Estel was so young when he lost his father, so utterly alone…

 _No,_ Elrond corrected himself.   _Estel’s mother still lived under his roof. Yet she might as well be a ghost. He never believed it possible for a human to fade in the manner of the Eldar, but Gilraen seemed to be nigh on her way to achieving that feat._

Gilraen had always been ill at ease in Imladris. She had not grown up around the Eldar. For her young son’s sake, she had left her kin to dwell here. She spent all her time with her young son initially, keeping to her rooms or the gardens where Estel played. When Estel was old enough, he was given his own room. In the early days, she would watch over him as he slept, or tell him stories of his father and forefathers before bed.

Gilraen was young when she was widowed, even for a mortal. Unlike the Eldar, mortals are free to bind themselves to another, should their spouse pass. It was thought that she might return to her people and remarry as many Edain widows did after a suitable duration of mourning. Yet Gilraen continued to grieve for her husband far longer than was expected. Perhaps cut off from her kin, she felt lonely. Slowly but steadily, she grew apart from her son.

Like the tragic heroines of the old songs, Gilraen had given her entire heart to her husband and lord, only to lose him to cruel fate. She had poured her all into her son, until she had no more left to give. If she were an Eldar, the healer Elrond would have packed her off to the Havens to take the ship to Valinor, but she was not. Thus she lingered in her grief in Arda despite Elrond’s tinctures and teas to lighten her spirit.

She no longer dined with Estel or the rest of the family but took her meals in her rooms from which she seldom ventured forth. No longer did she attend the gatherings in the Hall of Fire where once she had gladly sung alongside their guests. For a time she amused herself with the books of Elrond’s library and the scrolls of herblore. Elrond tried to converse with her but she dared not or would not speak with him beyond the most monosyllabic of answers. Soon herblore no longer interested her. Elrond encouraged her to visit her kin in the Dunedain in summer, providing an escort of his best warriors to protect her. She would stay a month or two with her parents.

Young Estel was bewildered by her absences, even when she was with him in person, she seemed so distant. Elladan and Elrohir more than made up for the growing lack of affection. Estel slowly learned not to ask for her, or seek her out.   _No, she loves her son still, but she could not bear to allow herself to care too much. She fears losing him, like his father._

Sometimes Elrond would catch the flash of silver at a window overlooking the yard as his sons trained with his fosterling. Or Gilraen’s shadow as she waits for her son’s return after hunting. He had done the same for his children when they first started venturing beyond the safety of his realm. During those nervous days when he became aware of the budding romance between his fosterling and Arwen, he also noted the telltale flutter of a sleeve in the corridor which overlooked the gardens the lovers frequented. Estel had no doubt consulted with his mother with regards to his pursuit and she opposed it. Fate and true love had their say in the end.

Elrond paused before he knocked on the door of Gilraen’s chamber. “Lady…”

“How does he?” a harsh intake of breath. The door swung open and Gilraen’s pale face peered out.

“Estel is resting as we speak. His hurts are not grave, though we might want him confined to the House of Healing for a while. Do you wish to sit with him?”

“I heard the guards speaking in the yard… He is Arathorn’s son, no doubt. I fear for him,” she said wryly. “He grows more like my husband with each passing day.”

“He is stubborn and brave like his father before him. One may pray he gain some wisdom with age,” Elrond replied.

“I fear losing him before then.”

Gilraen pulled her silver shawl about her shoulders and strode into the hall. Elrond had heard the tales from more suggestible members of his household and their guests, tales of lost maidens whose fea were forced to linger in Arda. One stable-lad was convinced he had sighted the tragic ghost of Nienor of Hurin’s line lingering by the stream. On hindsight, the young elf probably spotted Gilraen on a lonely evening stroll after one too many drinks.

* * *

 

Now in the House of Healing, she stroked the cheek of her sleeping son with all the tenderness of a mother.

“I cannot bear to lose him, or see him hurt. I will not be able to survive if he should fall like his father…”

“Estel will not fall so easily. He is blessed by the Valar…”

“I know he will not escape his destiny,” Gilraen smiled. A stray tear rolled down her cheek before she could stop it.

A wounded man in the next cot groaned aloud for water and Elrond went to tend to him, leaving Gilraen and her sleeping son alone. Then it was a ranger who condition suddenly worsened and Elrond was called away by a frantic apprentice. By dawn, the elf-lord was much wearied but glad he had managed to save the patient’s life.

Before retiring to his bed, Elrond went to check on his foster son’s dressings. Estel was awake but his mother was not. Exhausted by her vigil, Gilraen dozed with her head pillowed on her arms on the edge of her son’s bed.

Estel placed a finger upon his lips and shook his head at Elrond’s approach. _Those dressings can wait._ Elrond nodded and left the room. He understood. Gilraen had been through so much and was tired both in fea and hroa. There was little that can be done for her even in Imladris. 

Elrond was not too surprised when Gilraen expressed her desire to return to her family permanently some months later. Estel accompanied her on the journey before joining up with the Rangers again. His fosterling was now a man but like Gilraen, he could not help but worry for him at times. For Gilraen, he hoped that restored to the bosom of her kin, she might step beyond that grief which had sapped her fea in Imladris so severely and find happiness anew with Eru’s blessings. However, he doubted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gilraen is one of the many tragic female characters Tolkien is so keen on populating his Middle Earth with. One wonders what kind of role she would have played in Estel's life or in Imladris among the elves where she would be literally out of her element.


	13. His Little Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turgon/ Turukano wants only for his daughter to be safe and happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idril is the only great-grandchild of the House of Finwe who was confirmed to be canonically born in Valinor during the Years of the Trees and followed her father across the Ice.

After he lost his beloved Elenwe, all Turukano could think of was his daughter. Itarille was the reason he had not given up on the dark ice and joined her mother in Mandos. Itarille was just shy of her majority then. He would have preferred she stayed in Tirion with her grandmother but his little girl and pouted and stomped her foot, clamouring to join the March. They had relented in the end. She was such a willful elfling, spoilt by her adoring parents, uncles, aunts and grandparents.

On the ice he had almost lost her. In the cold and dark, she had achieved her majority without anyone realising it. Initially she allowed herself to be carried by her father and uncles in turn as she mourned her mother. Later, Itarille decided she would prefer to walk than to be carried like an elfling. She long ceased to whine about the bitter cold, not even when she wore out her shoes and sharp shards of ice sliced her feet to pieces. Crude boots had to be crafted from a leather vest taken off a dead guardsman. When Vasa first rose, Turukano saw his little girl was no longer an elfling.

Life in Beleriand was harsh and dangerous. Even seasoned warriors like the Feanorions often fell to orc attacks. Arafinwe’s brood had been granted refuge with Elu Thingol’s people behind Melian’s Girdle on the grounds of kinship. No such succour was afforded the Feanorions or Fingolfin’s host. Without complaint, his daughter tended to the wounded in the tents and trained with sword and bow alongside her aunt. It was not the life he wanted her to live.

* * *

 

He had been granted the vision of a hidden city by Lord Ulmo, a place safe from the war and darkness of Arda. Taking part of his people, including his sister and daughter, he ventured forth to seek out and build the city deep within the Encircling Mountains. _Gondolin_.

He styled the new city in the manner of their home across the Sundering Sea. He revived the old titles for the nobles who had followed him, among them the House of the Golden Flower, the Harp and the Swallow. His craftsmen created two trees of gold and silver in the city square – in imitation of Telperion and Laurelin. He became King Turgon of a hidden elven realm, isolated even from his brother Fingon and their cousins. Aredhel and Idril were afforded the courtesy and respect due to them as princesses of the Noldor.

Aredhel had chafed. She loved freedom and felt the city a gilded cage about her. Thus she had ventured forth from its safety and paid dearly. On hindsight perhaps Idril had chafed just as she did. Only she was more creative in hiding it from her father. Idril threw her attentions into growing the roses which graced the streets and organized festive dances in the Square of the Fountain. His princess always enjoyed dancing barefoot, even when she was a babe. For a time he was glad for his princess was safe.

Visitors from outside were few and far between. With his misbegotten nephew Maeglin, Turgon was careful to put him under the tutelage of various trusted lords. It was one thing for Idril to mother him as an elfling but it was unbecoming as he approached his majority. The dark elf whelp was starting to look at his daughter in a way he did not like. Idril did not like him in that way and they were too close in blood by Noldor custom to be joined.

When Tuor came, Idril was immediately smitten and him likewise with her. Recalling the prophecy left by Tuor’s father Huor and the tale of Beren and Luthein, he blessed his daughter’s decision to wed Tuor although he feared their time of joy would be short given her husband’s mortality. A son was born to the happy couple before long. Perhaps the half-elven child would assuage his mother’s loss when Tuor passed. They did not know how long half-elves lived or the path their fea took upon death.

He had never dreamed of the dark betrayal festering within his fair city. Lord Ulmo had warned him through Tuor to leave Gondolin but he refused to heed the Valar’s words. The unthinkable happened. Like so many of his brave warriors, he had fallen defending the hidden city he had built.

* * *

 In the Halls of Mandos, he had hungrily devoured the news gleaned from Vaire’s tapestries as to his daughter’s fate. She and her family had survived the Fall of Gondolin and escaped to the Havens of Sirion. There the refugees of Gondolin joined those who had fled the Kinslaying at Doriath and carved out a new life. His poor little princess had to weave and spin like any other elleth in the Havens while her husband joined the ellyn sailing.

His little grandson Earendil played with pebbles and shells on the beach instead of those clever toys of gems and precious metals crafted by Gondolin’s most skilled artisans at his grandfather’s request. It was on the sand that Earendil first met Elwing, an orphaned princess of another fallen realm and half-elven to boot. The youngsters grew up faster than any elfling should and were wed far too young. Tuor had aged and Idril decided to sail west with him.

That was the last he knew of his little girl within the Halls. 

For a long while he fretted. _Had they reached the shores of Aman safely in spite of the Ban? Or was she lost at sea and her fea headed for Mandos, bereft of her Mannish spouse?_

* * *

 

The sunlight was so bright he had to squint. _Had the heat of the sun always been so harsh on the skin?_ It had been too long since he had a body. He had journeyed to Tol Eressea to meet them instead of waiting for them to make the journey to Tirion as Elenwe had urged. It was too soon for him to make the trip. He had not fully regained his strength.  

His mother had been shocked by the revelation her grandchild had chosen a Mannish spouse. He had been chided for allowing the union to occur but both his father and Uncle Arafinwe, the King of the Noldor, had spoken in his defence.

Had it not been for the bravery and humility of Earendil, the child of that forementioned union, the Doom would not have been lifted from the Exiles. War of Wrath would not have occurred and Morgoth would have continued to hold the Hither Lands in thrall. It was Doom which had decreed Idril’s union with Tuor and Turgon had only acted in accordance with Eru’s plan.

 _There was too much that had changed in Aman since her childhood that she wanted to see,_ Idril had apologized in her letter. _There was so much to show Tuor, who had been granted immortality by the Valar. They might make a detour to Elwing’s tower to meet Earendil before returning to the rigors of courtly life awaiting them in Tirion._ Turgon could not wait.

He saw them on the quay. Idril was laughing with Tuor as he tried his hand at shrimp-fishing. Tuor had aged. Grey streaks marked his hair and beard. His actions were slower than Turgon recalled. Idril remained young in comparison. Yet her bare feet were still scarred from crossing the ice and her hands now callused by hard work in the Havens. The deep love they shared was clear in the way their eyes held each other. Perhaps it would last as long as Arda and even beyond, Turgon mused. The couple did not see his approach until he was almost upon them.

“Adar,” his little princess came to greet him with a smile and a warm embrace. “You shouldn’t have come…”  

“I wanted to see my little princess,” Turgon replied almost choking with tears of joy. _Safe and happy._


	14. Their Precious Jewel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at the Lay of Leithian from the POV of Luthien’s concerned parents.

“Thingol, what have you done?”

The king of Doriath looked up from his cup at his visibly livid queen, Melian. Her full lips were pressed into a thin line, a sign she was barely holding in her ire.

“Nothing much, my dearest heart. I have sent that upstart off for good. He’ll plague us no more…”

“You sent Beren off on a quest to steal the Silmarilli from Morgoth! No good can come of this…”

Thingol winced at the sound that man’s name on his wife’s tongue. _That Adan had dared to court his precious daughter, their sweet Luthien…_

With a swish of her skirts, his queen had stormed out of the chamber, most likely for Luthien’s rooms. Elu Thingol sighed wearily. His minstrel was right. They should never have let Beren into their lives, into Doriath. _Well, never more shall he blight their lives. Beren will be a fool not to see the hopelessness of the task set, a dead fool._ His daughter Luthien, fairest elleth in all of creation, deserves so much better than a weak Man.

* * *

 

Melian twisted her hands in her gown as she listened to her daughter’s words. Luthien had been restless for many a day and a heavy shadow had fallen over her fea. She no longer had the heart to sing or dance. Even a stroll under the trees gave her no ease. For a while Melian pondered if she would lie to her only child. Already she could foresee losing her daughter to an unseen fate. She wanted to hold Luthien close in her arms and will away the Doom which threatened them all.

She is of the Maiar. She was there when Arda was yet Unmarred. She could not lie. Especially not to her beloved only child. Lies were the creation of Morgoth, who had marred and darkened both Arda and Aman so irreparably.

Melian took up her shuttle and sat at her loom. Her hands worked the shuttle but her thoughts were far away. She knew her daughter very well indeed. Luthien has always been a talented student. Better to sit here in the parlour and weave while father confronted daughter at the gate.

_“Please, adar, do not bar my way…”_

_“Luthien, you are my daughter. Heed my words and desist from this folly!”_

_“Beren needs my aid!”_

_“Luthien, do not let your thoughts dwell on that man. He is nothing…”_

The words slurred on Thingol’s lips as he swayed. His daughter had started to sing. One by one the guards fell under her spell and collapsed to the ground asleep. Melian could see them in her mind’s eye as she wove feverishly. Thingol fought hard against the spell but Melian’s Maia blood was strong in their daughter.

 _“My lady, please… at least let us…”_ a voice beseeched.

Beleg tried to chase away slumber by pricking his palm with a dagger, to no avail. Soon he was snoring sprawled across his master’s legs. _A pity that. Luthien would have to venture beyond the Girdle alone without even the stalwart Beleg for her protection._ The Queen put down her work. She had woven a wolf into the tapestry among the trees and birds. The spell would wear off in an hour or so and she would have to be there to console her husband.

* * *

 

For many anxious days they waited for news of their daughter’s fate. Thingol fretted and cursed, lashing out at the luckless scouts and sentries who were found asleep at their posts from their princess’ song. Melian only watched on in sorrow. The Doom could not be turned away. It was the beginning of the end of Doriath as they knew it. Luthien is strong. She and her beloved will succeed in their quest. _Once those jewels of light are wrest from Morgoth, who knows the bounds of his rage?_

Whispers drifted in from outside – a debt of friendship called upon, an honourable king and his loyal friends betrayed by his kinsmen, a maiden of great beauty held against her will by those same kinsmen… Thingol swore that if those Noldor had harmed his little girl, he would kill them and Kinslaying taboos be damned. Melian only chuckled softly at how her little girl had so blithely won over the trust and loyalty of Huan, the Feanorions’ loyal wolfhound since their childhood. Celegorm must be both heartbroken and furious. They always claimed the ellon and his hound were nigh inseparable since their days in Valinor.

Their Marchwarden Mablung sent word – Beren and their princess have returned upon the hound Huan, but without the Silmaril. They were at the realm’s borders and an escort was sent out to them. Thingol declared that since Beren had failed, he should be forbidden from entering. Melian forestalled his decree.

“He is gravely wounded on account of the quest. He has lost a hand and almost died were it not for our daughter’s skill. Would you turn a cripple out into the wilds? Turn him out now and Luthien will follow him.”

Thus Beren was reluctantly sent to the best healers in Menegroth on command of the king. Melian neglected to mention that Luthien had taken care of most of his hurts. Before the court, Luthien and Beren related their adventures thus far to the awe of their listeners. Melian felt her heart twist with worry. _This was akin to the calm before one of Osse’s storms._

Later, Melian watched as the young couple sat together in the healers’ hall, gazing into each other’s eyes and softly speaking words of love. An Age and more ago, in a forest, she and Thingol had gazed at each other thus until the trees grew tall about them. Her heart was glad for her daughter yet it ached with the knowledge of the pair’s eventual parting when the Gift of Man befalls Beren.

* * *

 

The alarm was sounded. A great wolf had broken through the Fence of her power. Melian could sense the madness and pain of the fell beast as it rampaged through her beautiful forest – Darkness engulfing light, being consumed by light. The Accursed Jewel had come to Doriath. The hunting party was hastily assembled – Beleg the Archer, Mablung of the Heavy Fist, Huan the Hound and even Beren, who insisted that he be allowed to complete his Quest. Their king would lead them.

“Stay safe, my love,” Melian gave a light kiss to Thingol’s cheek before he rode forth with the party. She feared losing him to Mandos. 

Once more she sat before her loom, trying to ignore the chattering birds outside her window as she worked. She wove a man and a woman standing amidst a field of white flowers under a starry sky. _Both wolf and hound are dead!_ A sparrow chirped. _He’s dead!_ A thrush trilled. She did not wish to ask them who has died.

“My lord, you have returned!” Melian forsook all courtly dignity to throw her arms about him. Thingol was bloodied, battered, but alive. Yet something was different about him. The Silmaril. He clasped it in his free hand. The light trapped within was reflected in his eyes and face, giving him an earthly aura, almost of madness. She almost shied from the light. This was the light of the Trees, meant to illuminate the Ancient West but now trapped in this jewel which has brought nought but death…

 _Who died?_ The Maia dare not allow herself to think of the possibility yet.

The answer was known as a cloak-covered litter was brought within by a sombre Beleg and Mablung. Luthien’s stricken wail echoed through the caves. It was Beren’s cloak covering the corpse. They buried him under the leaves of a mighty oak and Luthien wept tears of sorrow over his grave.

By dawn the poor maiden had faded from grief, her fea following Beren’s into death, leaving only the shell of her hroa behind. They had lost their daughter too soon to Mandos’ Halls.

* * *

 

“I was glad when they declared his wounds mortal…” Thingol muttered. “I thought we would be free of him… We have traded our dearest child for this gem of misery…” The bitterness was heavy in his voice. The Silmaril now sat deep in their treasury under heavy guard.

“At least he should have brought the other two! I will set them in the Nauglamir… Fine crown jewels for Menegroth, eh?” the grieving father downed the rest of his wine. “A fine wedding gift it would have made…”  

Melian did not reply to his outburst. Silent, she continued at her loom, weaving. It has been a week and two since they buried their child beside Beren. The darkness was closing in. Thingol was a fine king, a good strong elf… but even their creator Feanor had lost himself in the beauty of those gems. _What will you do, Thingol? Venture out to claim the gem’s twins from the Iron Crown of Morgoth? News flies swiftly along the paths and rivers. Surely the Sons of Feanor would have heard of the Silmaril’s arrival in Doriath by now. My Girdle of power is broken. Doriath lies open._

“Your Majesties!” a trembling page came stumbling in. He smattered and stuttered so much he could make no sense.

“Speak up, you knave!” Thingol bellowed. _Was the Feanorion army at the gate?_

“Ada, Nana…” a voice drifted in from outside the chamber. _Could it be?_

“The Valar has allowed us to return to Arda and we seek your blessings to be wed.” Luthien stepped into the room, with her chosen Beren. Blinking away tears and forcing a smile, Melian stood up from her loom and went forth to greet her now-mortal daughter.


	15. Amme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indis tries her best to be a mother to Feanor but her stepson was having none of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Family tensions in the House of Finwe.

She knew all about Miriel Serinde when Finwe asked her brother for her hand in marriage. They had been close friends since before Miriel wedded Finwe, back in the east. The Valar had given their blessing for King Finwe of the Noldor to wed another after his first wife passed into the Halls. The High King Ingwe thought the match would be a means of bringing the Vanyar and Noldor closer. With his charm, Finwe swept her off her feet and she agreed readily to the match. It was hard leaving for Tirion, the Noldorin city of stone. She missed the trees and flowers of her home. Finwe was kind to her. She was accorded the respect due a sister of the High King of Elves by his court. Gradually, she learned the ways of Finwe’s court.

However, there was one snag in her life – Miriel’s son, Curufinwe Feanaro. He was a gangly youngster of twenty when she joined Finwe’s house. She felt sorry for him, being bereft of a mother’s love from his birth. He was a difficult boy.

“You are not my amil!” he had declared aloud before the entire court at her coronation banquet. There were a series of petty incidents in the early days. She would find her slippers filled with mud, or her precious flowers uprooted. The incidents stopped when her stepson realised that his mischief was not going to undo the marriage. It was more likely Finwe might send his wayward son away instead to Alqualonde or her brother’s court for fostering. The hostility grew worse when her children came.

Feanaro was Miriel’s elfling without a doubt. Indis recognized that single-minded purpose in him. He had his mother’s silver-grey eyes, eyes that blazed with an almost fevered light as he spoke to his father of his latest achievements or projects. He was too much like Miriel in that aspect.

 _What point is there if I do not put in my best?_ Miriel had fussed when instead of joining Indis and her friends for the dance, she had chosen to remain behind and redo an entire tapestry because the shade of green in it was wrong. Like with her embroidery, she had put in all her effort into her child, so much that she had worn herself out.

* * *

 

Indis soon came to realise that Finwe had never stopped loving or missing Miriel although he treated her well. Her children were accorded the education due to royal princes and princesses. She had fretted when they were sent off to the other courts for training in diplomacy. Feanaro was never sent away. Instead, he requested of his father and was granted his wish to train under the loremaster Rumil and later the smith Mahtan.  It was soon a competition between her children and Feanaro to gain their father’s affections. Finwe tried to be fair to her children and her stepson. However, Feanaro’s brilliance outshone his siblings’ achievements.

“Amil, why does Feanaro hate us?” young Nolofinwe asked.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Indis replied. _He hates me for replacing Miriel._

“He hates us for being born,” Findis’ words were both true and cutting.

Indis tried to smooth over the gulf between Finwe’s children. Headstrong Feanaro refused to attend any dinner if his stepmother and half-siblings were to be there. If he was forced to attend official banquets with them, he scowled and sniped at his hapless siblings until the ambiance was quite ruined.

Finwe was bewildered by the tensions between his new family and his eldest child. _Give him time, Indis. He will grow to love you and our children._ That never happened. Feanaro built walls around his heart to keep them all out, walls which she could never hope to breach. Miriel’s child would never call her amme.

* * *

 

It was only on that one occasion. No, she would never tell anyone, not her children, not even Finwe. Feanaro would never forgive her if she did.

It was the day of the fire at the forge. Something had gone wrong in one of the workshops. The following explosion had all but destroyed it. Thankfully, no lives were lost. The only apprentice near enough to be wounded was Feanaro.

Finwe was distraught. His favourite son lay fevered and in pain from his burns in the healers’ hall. The king sat by his bedside, consumed with worry. _Would he awake? Would he be the same elf he was?_ _Or would he lose his son to Mandos’ Halls?_

 _It will never do to have you wear yourself out,_ Indis chided and offered to sit at her stepson’s bedside and send Finwe word when he awoke.  

She had stayed by his side, sponging his burning brow to bring down the fever for hours as he fretted and moaned in his drugged sleep. She could have left him to the healers but she had promised her lord.

Finally, the fever broke and his eyes fluttered open and fought to focus.

 _“Amme…”_ It was an elfling’s cry, hoarse and cracked, coming from the throat of the youth.  Indis froze with her hand still on his brow.

The grey eyes focussed on her face. She saw the flashing emotions in them – bewilderment melting into anger. A scowl furrowed his handsome features. She pulled her hand away as if bitten.

“I will fetch your father…” Indis left her stepson.

They never spoke of that night ever.

* * *

 

Her lord was dead, slain by Melkor. Indis was a widow. Finwe’s shrouded corpse lay in state for now, awaiting his pyre. Darkness shrouded their world save for the Feanorian lamps and fires left burning. Indis drifted unchallenged through the palace. Word has been sent to Findis where she was studying under Este. Her eldest daughter had forgone the revelry of the feast, having never liked crowds.

Nolofinwe had returned home to his house in the city with his family. Itarille was still young and needed her rest. Gentle Arafinwe and his brood had retired to their rooms in preparation for the demanding funerary rituals to follow. Indis had comforted a weeping Irime in her rooms until her daughter cried herself to sleep. The Feanorions had escorted their grandfather from Formenos. Indis had seen them- the parents and their seven sons. Yet only Nerdenal and her sons had walked out from the palace gates.

She found him there in the hall, silent and staring at the dead face of his father. Grief was etched in the handsome features of the eldest prince, raw and terrible.

“Feanaro…” she tried to approach him, offer him what little comfort she could- just as she had done for her children.

 _“Don’t…”_ the words were like a whip. The warning in his tone was clear. _Don’t presume to approach me. You are not my amil and never will be._

She was the intruder here. Indis drew back into the shadows and continued on, away from the fire-lit hall where her husband’s corpse lay mourned by his eldest son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this idea where Indis and Miriel were friends since before they came to Valinor. Indis just wants to take care of her late friend's son but Feanor does not make it easy.


	16. Atar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the quiet of the night before starting out for Doriath after the Silmaril, Feanor’s six sons reflect on their father and his descent into madness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is only fitting that after so many chapters centering on parents, I look at the parent-child interaction from the other end.

_When did it start?_ He had long enough to reflect during that agonising time hanging off that terrible cliff at Thangorodrim, before the torment and utter despair of his circumstances drove him into near-insanity. It had taken a long time for his body to heal and the nightmares to recede afterwards. He still thought about it on the many cold dark nights when rest eluded him.

Like most elflings, Maedhros looked up to his father. Atto was the rock around which their family was built, the pillar of strength. He delighted in Feanor’s smile of approval for a lesson well-learnt. _Well done, my son._ The smile was dearer than any words to the young elf. Among the apprentices, it was Feanor’s cutting critique which they feared. To his dismay, Maedhros soon learnt his skill as a smith and craftsman was mediocre at best. He felt he had let his father down.

Perhaps he first feared for his father’s sanity when he drew his sword on his uncle Fingolfin, goaded on by false whispers and intrigue. Despite that he had stood by Feanor, following him to exile in Formenos. It was unthinkable that he let his father down again. That was why he had readily sworn that dreadful Oath and his brothers followed his lead.

It was late. Maedhros snuffed the candle out. He must retire for the night, or try to. For his brothers need him to lead them on the morn now that Atto's gone. 

* * *

 

_Are the stars in Aman brighter than the stars above now?_

The solitary elf on the battlements gazed at stars above, harp in hand. He had little heart to play. He wondered if Feanor’s unhoused fea made it to Mandos or lingered on in Endore. He was well acquainted with his atar’s fiery temper and stubborn pride. Feanor took great pride in his son’s talent on the harp but was dismayed when he found Maglor’s skills in smithwork utterly lacking. He had overheard the heated arguments between his parents before Feanor grudgingly agreed to apprentice his son to a Telerin minstrel in the city to hone his gift.

Still Maglor was shocked when the first kinslaying happened so long ago in Alqualonde. His father had run a hapless Telerin elf through when the latter refused to let the Noldor take the ships. That elf had been familiar to Maglor, perhaps a kinsman of his wife. There had been few words exchanged, only the flash of steel. The aftermath was a bloodbath and they crossed on a sea of red. _Never more shall they know peace, for they had become Kinslayers._

_How fitting and poetic, that his Atar burned to ash in his passing, his hroa consumed as if on a funeral pyre._

* * *

 

 _By the Valar, it’s darker than Morgoth’s maw in here._ The blond elf muttered under his breath as he fought to light the Feanorian lamp by his bed, the last they had. The forge here was simply not suited for their casting, Curufin had explained. Finally success and a warm glow filled the room. He had dreamed of hunting with Huan on endless plains and in sprawling woods of Aman, an age of blissful innocence before his father went mad and ruined everything for everyone.

Madness was contagious. H _ad not Maedhros, who had always been so reasonable, been the first of them to swear that Oath? Had they all not participated in the massacre at Alqualonde and later abandoned the Host of Fingolfin on the sands? Had he and his brother not acted basely in their dealings with both their cousin and Luthien and been exiled from Nargothrond?_ Even Huan had shunned him and allied himself with Luthien. The sons of Feanor were all infected with the same insanity which drove their father to his fiery death.

The lamp flickered. Celegorm laughed dryly as the lamp died and plunged his room into darkness. How fitting if their father’s madness drove them all to their deaths in turn.

* * *

 

He was afraid. He had dreamt of his father’s death, watching helpless as a dying Feanor crumbled into ash. Caranthir smoothed the needlework he had been working on. It was a favoured pastime of his. The measured stitches and intricacies of the patterns taught him patience and calm. How ironic that it was in Endore his skill flourished during the long siege. He had learnt from Haleth’s people the natural dyes to be extracted from the local flora. He had traded with the Edain and Dwarves, coming across new fabrics, weaves and designs. He was a Noldo and like his kindred a consummate craftsman at his chosen craft.

 _Ashes, ashes…_ Atto had burned, like his ill-fated little brother, only the fire that consumed his father had came from within Feanor. The lamp flickered and went out.

In the moonlight, the brilliant colours on the sampler were muted. They traced the pale outline of the wife he had left behind across the sea. With each passing year her face grew hazier in his memory and he wished to record it down in silk and linen lest he forgot her entirely.

Caranthir did not wish to re-light the lamp or even stoke up the fire in the ashy hearth. His father had been a consummate and talented smith. The forge fires were kept burning constantly and the ring of hammer on anvil was a constant companion in their home. In some way, he understood a craftsman’s attachment to his work. He had mourned the loss of several fine tapestries by his hand when the Siege broke and he had to flee for safety. He consoled himself that the tapestries could be recreated better and brilliant than they were.

This sampler was just a start. A suitable length of cloth had to be found for the base and the plants gathered for dye-making. They say the Silmarilli were Atto’s crowning masterpiece. _Could Feanor have suppressed his gems if he had tried?_

It was late. Caranthir put aside his yarns. When they return from this campaign, he would continue his work. The final tapestry would hang nicely in the main hall of the keep to be admired by all.

* * *

 

The madness had descended well before Morgoth was freed. Alone in the forge of his brother’s keep, Curufinwe inspected the blade of his sword by the firelight. It was a fine piece of work, but nowhere as fine as Feanor’s creations. He should know. Curufin had spent much time about his father’s forge back in Tirion.

 _The Silmarilli._ His father’s greatest achievement. They had all delighted in their creation, never foreseeing the shimmering gems would one day tear their family apart. Perhaps their amme was concerned about Feanor’s growing obsession with the jewels but no one had paid her heed. During their banishment to Formenos, there were days when he would be sequestered in the strongroom with his Silmarilli.

 _Obsession,_ his father was obsessed with those gems. Nay, they were all caught up in his obsession. The Oath was everything to him. He had taken a wife from the Nandor but she left him when she saw he had no room in his heart for her or their child. He lost his son forever through his betrayal of his kinsman Finrod. Celebrimbor chose not to follow him into exile, repudiating his ties to the House of Feanor. Yet the sacrifice was worth it. The siren song of the jewels was irresistible, almost commanding. _Perhaps a piece of their father lived on within the gems._

Tomorrow they would ride for Doriath with their war host to reclaim the Silmaril, a piece of their atar’s soul.

* * *

 

Brushing his horse's flank always brought back memories. Everything he did brought Telvo to mind. They had done everything together since the day they were born. It amused the grownups to no end to see the twins doing their chores together, playing together and speaking together as if one. 

 _Atto’s changed. He’s gone mad._ His twin was the first to see the truth and give voice to that which they had all refused to acknowledge out of love and awe of their father. Amras had laughed at his fears on the beach and called them foolish. That was the last time he had laughed so freely. Telvo had burned on the ships, set aflame upon their father’s command. Amras lost a part of himself in those flames. Some nights he forgot and called out a goodnight to his twin before catching himself.

Aching from the loss of his twin, Amras had spoken out against his father in the aftermath of the burning ships. His father had barely shown any sign of emotion then. _Had Telvo meant so little to him?_ Yet Feanor was still his atar. Amras had continued on with his remaining brothers on their doomed quest.

They had all suffered in chasing the Oath. Telvo had perished too soon. Perhaps he was the lucky one. Even when Feanor passed into the Halls, his Oath continued to extract a heavy price on his surviving sons, shunned and cursed as Kinslayers. Maedhros had suffered torture in Angband and the loss of his hand. The memories no doubt haunted him still. Celegorm and Curufin had bartered away whatever honour they had left in their blind pursuit. Maglor sang less now, his time given to the sword and battlefield strategy. When he did sing, it would be a lament for the fallen. Caranthir had drawn away from everyone else, keeping to his room for long hours and scarcely speaking with others.

 _Will retrieving the Silmaril redeem them?_ Amras did not wish to think upon it. Perhaps it would burn them all to ash, _just like Atto._


	17. Picking up the Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miriel was absent from her son’s childhood and life. Does she ever regret that?

She wanted their child to be the perfect elf, a son worthy of Finwe’s name and lineage. It was so hard, putting her strength, her will, even her very life into the growing child in her womb. He must be fair to look upon, a handsome elf. He must be intelligent. He must be strong, both in body and in spirit. He must be the greatest elf in all Elf-kind.

When he finally came squalling into the world, she found had no more strength left in her, not even to hold their babe. She understood she would not be at his side as he grew up. 

“Feanaro…” she remained conscious long enough to name him, before the weariness overtook her. She simply did not have the strength or will to continue living. Finwe took her to Lord Irmo’s garden, to seek the Valar’s healing for his queen, to no avail. It was not long before her fea fled her hroa for Mandos’ Halls. 

Better to remain within the Halls, to allow Finwe and their son to continue without her. There was no healing to be had in Mandos or Lorien, perhaps in the whole of Aman. Lord Namo tried to coax her into returning but she could not bear the thought of it. She was too tired and she did not wish to burden her husband and son with an invalid. _No, she will never return from Mandos._

Time flew outside the Halls. She would trace her elfling’s growth through Vaire’s tapestries. Feanaro was the apple of his father’s eye. He excelled in all he set his mind too. It was almost a pity she was unable to tell him how proud she was of him. Finwe soon grew lonely and yearned for the companionship of a mate. He sought the Valar’s permission to take a second wife in fair Indis of the Vanyar. Indis was her friend since the days of before the Great Journey. The Vanya had a nurturing side to her. Indis readily took the elflings who had lost their parents under her wing. She would be a perfect mother for Feanaro. Alas it was not to be. 

Feanaro was having none of that, although he was still an elfling. He made that clear the day Indis came into Tirion. Feanaro’s half-siblings soon followed. The Vanyar were known for favouring large families and Indis’ brood of four could be considered modest. The eldest, Findis, was solemn, studious child who had the makings of a scholar or healer. Nolofinwe was Finwe’s son without a doubt, he had the makings of a leader despite the fact he deferred to his elder brother. The second prince was a born warrior who loved participating in sports. The youngest princess Irime was a merry young elfling who seemed to have nary a care in the world. Her singing brightened up the palace. Arafinwe, the last child of Finwe took most after his mother both in looks and in his gentle nature. He was also gifted with a sweet, patient temper absent in all his siblings. 

 _What a shame,_ Miriel thought as she studied the House of Finwe through the tapestries. Her son could have been so much more than the elf he was, if only he would accept his stepmother and half-siblings. Indis could have been the mother and guidance he so lacked. Findis’ intelligence made her nearly an equal to Feanaro in scholarship. Surely she would have greatly improved on the Tengwar script or at least present the new alphabet in a way which did not wound poor Rumil so deeply. Nolofinwe was athletic and a worthy sparring partner for the Crown Prince. He was unfailingly loyal to his elder brother too. Irime might not be as bright as Findis, but she brought cheer and laughter wherever she went with her song. Surely she would have brightened Feanaro’s dark moods if he would let her. Arafinwe was so much like Indis. He had a gentle heart and would gladly listen to his siblings unburden their woes to him. 

None of them could or had any desire to compete with Feanaro in the forge. That was Feanaro’s talent. None of them ever competed for their father’s love which Finwe gladly showered on his eldest son.  Curufinwe Feanaro was well-named indeed. He was both brilliant and so fiery in his temper. Miriel had hoped the calming influence of Indis and his half-siblings would temper his fiery spirit. Instead her son found his soul mate in a smith’s daughter. Nerdenal helped curb her husband’s fiery spirit for a while. 

Miriel took vicarious delight in the homely tapestries which followed her son’s marriage. _Seven sons, fancy that!_ Nerdanel was a strong nis to bring such fine children into the world for her husband. Fatherhood suited her son and he doted over his brood. Her grandsons all respected and adored him in turn. She would have loved to hold the elflings but she did not desire to leave the Halls. Her return now would upset the lives of Indis and her brood. She must be sensible and remain within. 

Discord and sorrow soon followed for the House of Finwe. Feanaro’s relationship with his Indis’ elder son was never cordial, but now Feanaro went so far as to threaten his half-brother. The Valar banished him to the north for that. He retreated there with his family and his greatest masterpiece, three jewels which held the Light of the Trees. Finwe went with his favourite son into exile, leaving Nolofinwe in Tirion as acting regent. _How Feanaro must have seethed._

The Halls were in disarray. Never had she seen so many fear drifting in, all screaming in pain and confusion. The serving Maiar scurried about ushering the new arrivals to Lord Namo’s throne room, whispering in hushed tones to each other. _Melkor._ Miriel overheard. _The Trees are dying…_ She could not make sense of their words. Sensing her agitation, Lady Vaire called her away to the halls of weaving. Gently, she broke the news to her. _Finwe is dead, slain by Melkor. Melkor has drained the life from the Trees and stolen her son’s prized Silmarilli._  

* * *

 

Her son had gone insane in his grief and rage, mad enough to swear a terrible Oath that would damn him and his sons. Under his leadership a host of Noldor had defied the Ban and ventured out of the Undying Lands. Feanaro had instigated the First Kinslaying at Alqualonde. Never had blood been so freely spilled in the Blessed Realm. _No!_ Miriel shook her head _. It cannot be! Her beautiful, brilliant son…_  

 _Would you like to work with us? You may practice at that loom yonder_ , Vaire smiled sad as she tried to console her. _These are the unfinished tapestries which never were._

Miriel took up the needle and threads. The familiar feeling of the tools of her craft in her hands was a comfort. Slowly and steadily, her troubled fea calmed. 

She could have retained her strength enough to survive to be mother to Feanaro. If she had not given of herself so much for her son, perhaps she could have given her lord the companionship and large family he so yearned for. _If…_ A word for hopelessness. 

In her tapestry a family took shape. A pair of parents – Finwe and herself. Next came the elflings. A lesser version of her actual son, an artisan of the forge with her dedication and his father’s kingly mien. The fire in him was not so fierce, without the conceited pride and suppressed rage which marked Feanaro. Perhaps next would be a warrior son, athletic and a hunting companion to his brother. After him a daughter, with nimble fingers built for needlework, for Miriel to take under her wing.  Another son, a scholar this time, given to lore. Finally a little daughter who would find her calling in the healing arts. Miriel could have apprenticed her to Indis. Indis was a healer among her people before she became Queen. 

 _These are the elflings that never were… The paths we never took…_ The stitches faded away, melting into the cloth. _The tapestry of things which never were_.

 _Finwe seeks you. Do you wish to speak with your lord before you are re-embodied?_ Vaire asked gently. _Both of you have suffered much for your son’s sake._

“My lady, I have no wish to leave these halls, even if I am to be returned to life. I wish to be allowed to work on the tapestries chronicling the deeds of the House of Finwe…” _I have no wish to face Finwe, not yet._

 _Your wish is granted. I must warn you that it will be hard work._ Vaire led Miriel to a great tapestry. Miriel gasped at the scene of battle before her. Feanaro stood fierce and terrible among the carnage, blood dripping from his sword. It was the First Kinslaying. _Can you do it?_

“I can and I will. It is the least I can do now for my husband and my son…” Miriel furiously blinked away her ears. Tears would ruin the threads if allowed to fall.

There was always too much fire in her son. She had foreseen his fate even she bore him in the womb, channeling her strength to him. Fire burns and destroys, if not careful mastered and tended. They had failed him, both Finwe and Miriel. His wife managed to rein in his rebellious spirit for a while with her love but now he had turned away from her good counsel. Now they could only watch him burn and a great many of their people with him, for he is too stubborn and prideful to beg the Valar’s forgiveness as his half-brother had done.  

_Perhaps she will be allowed to tend to his wounded fea when he finally enters the Halls._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One version of the legendarium suggests that Miriel was re-embodied after Finwe died but chose to remain in Mandos as a handmaiden to Vaire embroidering the tapestries.


	18. Fairy Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belladonna Baggins gave a special gift to her son, but Bilbo doesn't realise it until he learns the truth in those fairy tales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's curiosity of the wide world is more than just his Tookish blood showing. A chapter for the Hobbits.

“May I have a bedtime story please, Mom? I have been a good little Hobbit, haven’t I?”

“Yes, you have,” Belladonna Baggins laughed softly as she ruffled her son’s curls. “Now, which story shall you have tonight? Ah, what about the mariner and the dragon? I haven’t told you that one yet, have I?”

“No, Mom,” the child’s eyes glowed with delight and anticipation. His mother always told the best stories – tales of wonder, magic and adventure, tales which promise a world beyond that he knew.

“Very well… Once upon a time a very long time ago, there was a mariner prince…”

* * *

 

Everyone knew the Tooks were, well, a little odd. Whispers say members of the clan would leave on wild adventures ever once in a while, hobnobbing with wizards, elves and the like. Quite disreputable, one might say. Still Bungo Baggins fell for Old Took’s eldest daughter and the rest was history. To her credit, there were no further whispers of adventures outside the Shire once Belladonna Took became Mrs Baggins.   

His mother’s tales were magical to young Bilbo. Bungo would only laugh and dismiss them as flights of fancy caused by her Tookish blood. Any respectable Hobbit could see that there was not a grain of truth to those wild tales. They were like the fairy stories which that rascally Gandalf brought to the Shire’s parties. Gandalf’s fireworks were much appreciated, but most Hobbit parents would prefer the travelling wizard refrained from filling their little ones’ heads with his tales.

Belladonna would only laugh at their fears and add in one or two tales of her own.

As he grew up, it seemed Bilbo took after his father in his ways- content to sit in his parlour in Bag End smoking a pipe like a respectable, solid Hobbit would. Despite the expectations of his parents, he never wed either, to the disappointment of many a mother with an eligible daughter in the Shire.

Sometimes Bilbo would look out of his hobbit-hole and wonder about the wide world outside the Shire from which Gandalf came. There were travelling parties of Dwarves who passed through offering their skills at the forge. Men from Bree and outside the Shire passed through on occasion but had little dealings with the Hobbits, apart from the trade in pipeweed.

For a time it seemed he would live out his years as his respectable father did. That was before his amazing adventure and he learned dragons and shapeshifters were real. He was not so respectable to his Hobbit neighbours that incident but he did not mind overmuch. He would host his friends the dwarves at Bag’s Eng on occasion and his home would bustle with singing and music late into the night. He would make journeys with Gandalf or alone to Carrock to visit Beorn or into Rivendell.

He liked visiting Rivendell best for the nights of song in the Hall of Fire and discussions in Lord Elrond’s great library. In those old ballads and dusty tomes of lore, he found out the truth behind Belladonna’s bedtime stories. Of Earendil the Mariner, Lord Elrond’s father, who slew the terrible dragon Ancalagon. Of the land which sank below the waves and the survivors who founded the old kingdoms of Gondor and Anor. Of mighty battles of the distant past. They were often terrible tales but his mother had chosen carefully and further added her own blend of innocent magic to tailor them for her young audience.

Wonder and adventure could be found in the world of his mother’s tales. Fine gifts indeed Belladonna had bestowed on her only child, far more lasting that a grand home or silver spoons. Bilbo almost felt sorry he had no children of his own to give Belladonna’s gift of wonder to.

Then Frodo came into his life. A curious lad orphaned young, a bit unruly and in all sorts of youthful mischief, nothing a firm hand and some gentle guidance could not fix. Seeing the Brandybucks were unable to manage him, Bilbo opened his home and his heart to his young nephew.

* * *

 

“What could you tell me about the Elves? Are there water-elves and wood-elves?”

“Easy now, Frodo. Let’s get those turnips in first. I’ll tell you about the wood-elves and High-elves over tea and a pipe,” Bilbo guffawed.

“Right. I’ll get the laundry in too, in case it rains…” the young Hobbit hastened to aid his uncle in unloading the cart of groceries.

Frodo was too old for bedtime stories, but tales by the fireside after a long day’s work would work just as well. Then there was the trick with the smoke rings Bilbo had been working on. It would fit nicely with the tale of the dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think given Gandalf's long association with the Shire and his friendship with Bilbo and Elrond, Bilbo might have heard a few stories of Elven lore through his mom, Gandalf or Elrond's household.


	19. Second Born Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir reflects on his father's words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably be the last update for a while as I am running out of the plot bunnies for this series.

_“It should’ve been you who went… not him…”_

He tried his best to ignore his father’s grief-driven words but they still bit. It should have been him who went to Imladris. _Had he not shared the same dream as Boromir?_ He had spoken of his dream to his brother, the night before it came to Boromir. _Perhaps their father was right. The dream meant for Faramir to undertake the arduous trek to Imladris._ Boromir was needed at their father’s side. These were uncertain times with the forces of Mordor encroaching upon Gondor’s borders.

 _“You are needed here, little brother… Take care of father for me.”_ Boromir had hugged him as they said their goodbyes, never guessing that it was the last time the brothers would speak. _Boromir’s dead._ His cloven horn had been found at the river’s edge.

His father had started to draw away from him some time before the dream. It was always Boromir the Steward sought out to discuss matters of strategy and state. Faramir thought it proper as Boromir was the Steward’s heir. _Boromir was the better warrior and leader. Their people needed his brother._

His father had drawn Boromir aside the night before his departure, so as to speak with him in private. Faramir had respected that and remained in the dining hall. No doubt his father had tried to dissuade him from his undertaking. Boromir refused his younger brother’s offer to join him on the journey.

 _It should have been you who went. It should have been you who had perished._ Faramir watched from a cautious distance his father’s dark moods. Since the arrival of the Halfling and Gandalf, Denethor’s temper has grown increasingly unpredictable.

* * *

 

He was wounded, poisoned. No normal wound could possibly make a man burn as if in both fire and ice. _Gondor will fall…_ The dagger of doubt twisted in his heart. If only his brother had lived. Boromir would know what to do… He was hovering between the world of the living and dead, vaguely aware of people about him, his friend Prince Imharil? Boromir? _What now?_

Wood, there was wood about them. His father was there with him, weeping and ranting by turn. _Smoke. Heat. He was going to burn. They were going to burn. Gondor will fall…_ All’s lost in the Steward’s madness. Faramir admitted to himself what he feared of the man who was his father. Denethor was no longer sane… He could not move, could not breathe…

* * *

 

_Dewdrops glistened in the sunlight. The clean fragrance of a spring morning filled his young lungs. His big brother was there, watchful as he took his first toddling steps towards his mother. Boromir could not have been older than six or seven then but he took the role of big brother seriously._

_“Come on, Faramir. You can do it…” she smiled and held out her arms to him. He teetered on one baby foot, then the other, always reaching out to her._

_He almost reached her when he fell backwards. He was too far away for his mother to catch him but Strong hands caught him from behind and steadied him. Boromir? No, his brother was distracted by a butterfly and was chasing it across the terrace. He looked up into a smiling face._

_“Well done, my son.”_

“Father…” Faramir croaked weakly as he awoke to a room sweet with the scent of athelas. His eyes slowly made out the surroundings as the House of Healing. Beds and cots and even mats had been pressed into service for the many wounded in the siege.

“He wakes!” a young healer called out. There was mild commotion as his concerned friends and comrades came running. It set his head throbbing.

“The Heir of Isildur has returned, captain!”

“He healed you of the poison, lad! Healed many of us. _The hands of a king are the hands of a healer,_ the prophecy is true…”

“Oh, shush! You’re disturbing the patients… It’s but a fever-dream… Lord Imharil’s appointed acting steward by that wizard, at least till Faramir’s better. If the King had returned…”

“I’m certain it was Isildur’s Heir who appointed…”

Faramir let the words of the conversation drift pass him.

“Faramir, your father is no more…” a battle-worn soldier came to his bedside and took his hand in an almost paternal gesture. Faramir was vaguely aware he had seen the same man among the city guards many times but the name slipped him.

“I know,” the son of the late Steward murmured sadly as he tried to sit up. He was still as weak as a new kitten although the ache in his head was receding. _Dewdrops in the spring sun, a pair of gentle hands and a reassuring smile. Farewell, my father._ Faramir blinked away the tears that came. 


End file.
